


The King Weeps

by StoneWingedAngel



Series: The Prince is Dead [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Battle of Five Armies, Blood, Character Death, Description of Injuries, Drama, Family, Gen, Heartbreak, Hurt/Comfort, Spoilers for The Hobbit book, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-26
Updated: 2014-10-26
Packaged: 2018-02-10 13:46:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 36,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2027310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StoneWingedAngel/pseuds/StoneWingedAngel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Legolas dies in Laketown when Smaug attacks, and Thranduil, in a desperate attempt to cope with his grief, retreats inside the nightmare that is his own mind, to re-live the past and torment himself with guilt. It falls to Tauriel to maintain the peace of the Woodland Realm; falls to her to fight the orcs and goblins as she seeks a cure for heartbreak; falls to her to find hope in the ashes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bad News

Thranduil should have known what was to come the moment she stepped through the door of his private chambers.

Tauriel was sensible, and she was an experienced tactician. She would never have reported to him alone after disobeying his orders to stay within Greenwood; she would have sent Legolas to bear the brunt of his wrath, because she knew there was far less he could or would do to Legolas than her.

Even though he'd already half-guessed what she was about to say, he choked on his own spit when she told him, trachea contracting and squeezing until he couldn't breathe for the rawness in his throat.

"Legolas…he's…he…the dragon…there was nothing I could do."

She was lying. She had to be lying; it wasn't true. Not his son…not his son with the nose that had crinkled when he laughed, still did, it still would, it would, it would…

"There was nothing anyone could have done."

Thranduil looked down at his hands. One of his nails had wine smudged under it, running over the skin of the fingertip like blood. His hands should have been there, to pluck Legolas from danger as he had before, a thousand times before.

The thought came to him, dully, that his hands couldn't reach back through time.

"My Lord?"

Thranduil raised his head. Tauriel's face was smeared with ash and stone-dust, grey and red and white and more red and more grey, layers upon layers of ugly colour. There were tear tracks under her eyes. Thranduil blinked at them, stupidly. He did not cry. He would not allow himself to.

She took a step forward. "My Lord…Smaug is dead. Bard, of Laketown, killed him with a black arrow."

Thranduil lifted a hand. It was trembling with anger; she had led Legolas away from the borders, she had  _taken_ him to Laketown. If Legolas had stayed in Greenwood, as Thranduil had instructed, he would not be dead. Part of him still believed he was not. That knowledge would come later; in comparison, the pain he felt now was nothing more than feathers touching water.

She had taken his son away from him. If she did not go, he would kill her before he even realised what was happening. The chair underneath him felt like it was trembling with his suppressed agony.

She did not go. She took another step towards him.

He stood up so abruptly that the spit still half-lodged in his throat shuddered and forced its way past his lips. "You." It was a snarl. For the first time in a long while, he did not try and bring measure or balance to his voice. It radiated off the walls like jagged stone. "You…"

Tauriel took a step back. "My Lord-"

"You! My son, you led him…you!"

Incoherence. Fascinating. He reached a hand towards her, ready to kill her – he could do it, right now. He would tear her head from her shoulders.

If she had stood still, he would have. But she continued to retreat; he vaguely registered her knees bending, the balls of her feet pressing into the rug. She was ready to fight him. She was ready for anything. And she would have been ready in Laketown.

_There was nothing I could do._

Legolas had grown fond of her, but Thranduil was the one who had let her know it. And, for all his anger, he could not force himself to believe that she had not tried to save him. It was he who had done nothing, because he had not been there.

His hand, still outstretched, trembled. The ring on his finger caught the light of the torch on the wall and flashed across his eye, distorting the flame and pulling it into a thousand pieces, wrapping them around his face like the fire he had seen in the North hundreds of years ago, when the dragon's breath had pounded his flesh to ruins. Legolas had felt that. He had known the dragonfire, in the end.

Tauriel seemed to vanish from the room as his thoughts shattered behind his eyes. His hands came up to cover his face as he stood, stock still, in the centre of the room; he knew he was keening, but he did not know how loudly. The air in his lungs was hollow and ringing; it was like inhaling smoke. The illusion that usually rested over his ragged face trembled and winked out of his existence. Rough sinew stung under his palms as he keened until he thought his throat would bleed, sinking to his knees so gently he barely noticed it happening.

He did not know how long it took Tauriel to take her leave; he was too far gone to hear the door closing.

 

* * *

 

Tauriel's hands were smeared in ash and blood. None of it was hers, and none of it was Legolas's – at first, the thought had been a relief, until she realised there had been so little of him left that there was nothing to bleed onto her fingers.

She had not expected Thranduil to react well to the news, but even that knowledge couldn't have prepared her for what happened. For a moment, she feared for her life. And then the noise. It was low and ragged and horribly, foully loud, like the sound a wounded Orc would make, constant and unflinching. The situation was so wrong that she almost lost her footing on the rug.

Briefly, she considered going forward, unsure what she would do or if it would work, but knowing that it was her duty as a subject, as someone with any compassion, to try help him. And then the scar presented itself to her, creeping out from under his fingertips, over the cheek and on and on until she was frozen in the spot, staring with grim fascination.

There had been rumours of an injury, a long time ago, but she had not known the extent. No-one had known. The pinkish-grey of the flesh made her want to gag; she could smell the burning bodies in the lake. There was soot still clinging her nostrils, and Thranduil was on his knees, at her feet, screaming.

With a gasp that bordered on retching, she turned on her heel and fled the room. The guards were advancing before she could get the door shut and drown out the dreadful screaming.

"Captain – the king, is he-"

Tauriel swallowed. Her hands had left ash and blood on the beautiful, simply designed door. Ash and blood in her hair, in her eyes, every inch of her skin. She needed a wash more than anything else. But there was no time. She could not allow them to go in; not with the king in such a state. He had kept his injury hidden for so long – she could not believe that he would allow them to see it.

"He is not hurt. He is grieving."

The guards exchanged glances. Tauriel raised on her toes, almost subconsciously, to reach their height. They were both taller than her, but she would match them breath-to-breath to get what she needed. What the king needed.

"We must give him time," she went on, before they could get ideas above their rank. "There is much we must do."

The guard on the left shifted uncomfortably. "Without the king's instructions?"

Tauriel shot him a look that could have burned stone. "The king is not yet ready to confront what faces us. He has just lost his  _son_. In his absence, others will have to take charge until he deems it otherwise. Do you understand?"

The guards nodded. Tauriel would have smiled, if she'd had the strength or cheer.

"Men will soon be gathering at the foot of Erebor, demanding compensation for what has taken place today. They will need our help and supplies if they are to last the winter; if we do not ally to them within the week they may lose any hope of negotiation with Oakenshield. I want a battalion put together immediately – two-hundred of the guard, and fifty on horseback – and I want them ready to leave within three days. Am I understood?"

The guards nodded a second time, without glancing snidely at each other beforehand. Good. Let them learn their place. She waved a hand. "Go."

"The king?"

"The king wishes to be alone."

The guards gave a short salute and vanished down the corridor. Tauriel let out a breath she hadn't known she was holding and pressed a grimy hand to her forehead. The walk back to her own chambers was insufferably long, with a hundred tiny cuts and burns scrabbling for her attention. A warm bath only aggravated them, but she stayed stubbornly in the water, scrubbing and scrubbing until every last speck of grey was gone from her. Getting it out of her hair was almost impossible, so she drained the bath and ran it again, drained it, ran it again, and sat in the translucent water, tugging at the locks until her scalp was raw.

Darkness was smothering the light by the time she forced herself out of the water and put fresh clothes on. She made herself eat, but food only sickened her. She swilled her mouth out with water, scrubbing frantically at her teeth with her finger. There was still soot and grit at the back of her tongue, so she scraped harder, until her gums were bleeding and tears beginning to gather in the corners of her eyes. The bowl clinked as she rested her hands on the edge of the table and let her wet hair fall in front of her eyes. Breathing was difficult – her lungs had been scorched by the smoke – and she began to cough.

It hit her then, that Legolas was dead. He had been her hunting partner, her friend, and now he was nothing. She had tried to convince herself it was not her fault; that she had not  _forced_  him to follow her, that Legolas would not want her to feel guilt when she could be doing something helpful.

She couldn't make herself believe it.

A knock at the door. Tauriel shook herself, sending water pattering onto her knuckles, which were white with the strain of keeping herself upright, balanced against the table. Now was not the time to think. There would not be time to think for days and weeks, maybe months. Good. She did not want to think.

She straightened and pushed her hair away from her face. The knock came again. Tauriel crossed the room and pulled the door open with a jerk, glad to see that her hands were no longer trembling. "Yes?"

"Captain." The guard, short and dark-haired, gave a curt bow. Her companion hovered a few feet behind, looking at his feet. "We did not know who else to report to for orders."

"The king has not yet…emerged?"

"No, Captain. Nothing has been heard from him in hours. Not since he sent the guards away."

Tauriel felt her heart clench. All she could remember was the keening, and the raw flesh of the scar underneath Thranduil's palms. He had not been well, when she had left him. What reason would he have for gathering himself enough to leave the room, only to send his private guards away?

"You are certain?"

Both the guards nodded. Tauriel's throat went dry with panic, but she did not let it show.

"Report to me until you hear otherwise."

"What of the king?"

"I will see to the king. Dismissed."

The guards bowed a second time. Tauriel let them pass out of sight before she left her room and made her way towards Thranduil's chambers, walking so briskly that the floor began to bruise her heels. The corridors, familiar as they were, seemed to loom out at her. Every wall was painted with dread. The king had sent his guards away, and she could not fathom any reason as to why.

Tauriel began to run.


	2. Family Portrait

The door to Thranduil's chambers was unlocked, and Tauriel forgot to knock; her head was too full of images, none of them pleasant, for her to even consider that, at a normal time, barging into the king's private rooms without announcing herself could have got her demoted, or worse.

A part of her hoped that there would be repercussions – that Thranduil would have recovered himself enough to tell her to leave – but there was only silence. The door banged shut as her eyes flicked from left to right. Her mouth was dry from the air rushing through her teeth.

"My Lord…"

Thranduil had found his way back to the chair he'd been seated in when she'd delivered the bad news, but the fact brought no comfort. His head was drooped forward, as if supporting a terrible weight, his neck loose, with the vertebrae raised beneath the stretched skin. The hair falling over his cheeks and lips couldn't disguise the fact that the scar was still on show. He hadn't covered it over.

Tauriel's heart, already beating too fast, refused to slow down. "My Lord?"

Silence. If it weren't for the hair in front of Thranduil's mouth fluttering in and out, she wouldn't have been able to tell if he was breathing.

The room was exactly as she had left it. No evidence that anything had changed. No evidence that the king was grieving, except for the fact that same king was sitting in his chair and resolutely acting as if she wasn't there, as if he were using silence as a form of reproach. Tauriel span on her heel in frustration, resisting the urge to start pulling at her hair, and something caught her eye.

Tauriel had not been in the room before today, but she was a soldier, and she was trained to notice things. She knew that before, on the wall facing the door, there had been a small painting, though she'd been too intent on giving her bad news to take it in properly.

It was no longer there.

She took a step toward where the painting had been in the hope it would antagonise Thranduil into action, but he didn't move; clearly, he was determined to ignore her. The wall the frame had been covering was slightly brighter than the rest of the room, a patch no larger than her head that had escaped the sunlight. The painting had fallen face-down and was resting half under the bed. Tauriel stretched out a hand, glanced back at Thranduil, and resolutely touched her fingers to it. She almost expected it to burn her, but it did not; she slid it out and turned it toward her.

She had known who the painting must have been of, but she was still not expecting what she saw. It was not, as she had assumed, a state painting; it was not regal or proud or even dignified. It was a moment, frozen in oil. Thranduil was only partially visible, his nose, lips and hands peeking over the side of the frame. Almost two thirds of the picture was…was…

Tauriel had never seen Legolas so young. His hair was downy, his nose wrinkled with laughter as his small hands reached for his father's. Thranduil was smiling, eyes half-closed. Tauriel's eyes flicked to the signature, and her lungs hitched in sympathetic recognition; the queen. Of course. Who else would Thranduil have allowed to paint such a private moment?

For the first time since entering the room, Tauriel felt like an intruder. Her head turned toward Thranduil. He had gone to this painting, he had knocked it down, and he had returned to his chair, to grieve. But that did her no good. It did Legolas's memory no good; it only made the situation, tangled and sticky as it already was, far worse.

Tauriel straightened and swallowed, trying to hide the way her lips and throat were quivering with unshed tears. "My Lord?"

No response.

"My Lord, you must listen. Erebor will be laid siege to any day now. Greenwood must be present, or the Lake people – and ourselves – may lose any chance of…of recompense, for what has occurred."

Thranduil didn't move. Tauriel let out a hiss. "Stop ignoring me!"

Nothing. Tauriel forced herself to take a breath, and then made several hasty steps toward the chair. Before she could change her mind she half-knelt in front of it, forcing herself to look Thranduil in the face. What was left of it. She wondered if Legolas had ever known what his father had really faced in the North. If he had, he might not have taken on a dragon so readily. Tears, frustrated and grief-laced, were gathering in her eyes. She blinked them away.

"Please, my Lord." She hesitated. "Thranduil."

No response. Not even to the level of rudeness she was daring to impose. The king was far gone, and she was running out of time. Her right hand found his shoulder and shook it; her own daring shocked her, but evidently it did not shock Thranduil. He didn't look at her as his head bobbed to the left. Resolutely and totally ignoring her.

It was only when the painting knocked against the floor she realised it was still clutched in her left hand. She hesitated, then reached for the king's fingers and forced the portrait into them. His hand refused to bend, and the painting slid from it, hit her knees and bounced off them, onto the floor.

Tauriel growled. "Alright. You are determined to be alone. I will leave you be – for one night. In the morning, we must take action. We cannot sit inside our borders and let the people of the Lake suffer. Legolas  _died_ trying to save them, and you will honour his memory or so help me…"

Or so help her what? What could she do to him?

Tuairiel got to her feet, narrowly avoiding treading on the painting as she did so, and strode out of the room before she was forced to come up with an answer to her own thoughts, letting the door bang shut behind her.

In the morning, she would make him listen.

 

* * *

 

Thranduil thought he remembered the moment in the painting; then again, maybe he did not. It was likely he'd looked at it so often that it had made the memory real. The time might never had existed. It would not, now. It would never, could never exist again, because he had lost everyone who had been a part of it. With a moan that was half a shriek, he knocked it to the floor.

He could smell death, even though Tauriel and the stench of ash that clung to her had long ago left the room. His ears were still ringing with shock, and the sound wasn't getting any quieter, so he stood perfectly still and tried to breathe, until he realised it was almost too much effort, and there was a heavy, painful rending in the middle of his chest.

Thranduil knew what it was; he'd felt it once before, and he could feel the same, creeping coldness inching through his heart, spreading out and out until he could barely breathe for it.

He forced himself to the door and sent the guards away. He did not want them blamed for anything that happened.

Going back to the chair was like lowering himself into a grave, but he went to it anyway, because he could die either on the floor or in the chair, and he might as well sit whilst the centre of his body slowly teased itself apart, like an unravelling rope. The less he moved, the harder he found it to think, and the harder he found it to think, the less he wanted to move. The chair seemed to have moulded into his body; he was welded to the floor, breathing so softly he couldn't get enough air into his lungs. It didn't matter. Sitting down, he needed very little.

Soon, the heartbreak would kill him.

And then Tauriel came again, and spoke to him so desperately – and so rudely – that it made him want to laugh, and cry, and get to his feet, but it was too late, he realised, far too late, and he couldn't even raise his head, let alone speak to her. He was dying, and she didn't even know it.

For a moment, he only panicked, until he realised it would do him no good. If he was not going to die – and a hazy part of him knew that he could not now, not ever be so selfish – he had to halt the progress of grief, force himself to sleep, force his body, if not his mind, to forget what had happened, where he was, maybe, even, who he was.

He had done it once before, and he had been warned never to do it again, but Thranduil had never been one to take advice over his own determination. He had only to fall asleep, lock his mind away from his body, and he might live.

The room, confused and shivering, vanished, and then there was only the remnants of his body, suspended in the darkness and tied down to the chair, a single object supporting him in the sour mist that came in from all sides. He no longer knew why he was there, only that he had to stay until…until…

He could not remember. It did not matter.

 

* * *

 

The dragon had come quickly. Danger always did.

As soon as she fell asleep Tauriel found herself back inside Bard's house, gently patting the last of the kingsfoil into Kili's leg and wishing that he would breathe with a little more strength. It was the right thing to do, to stay, and she knew it; Legolas had hunted orcs before, and won, but Kili could not win against the poison unless she helped him. It was a strategic decision, she thought, washing her hands in a small bowl of cold water and checking her weapons. The orcs were merely pests. The poison was lethal. Even half-knowing she was dreaming Tauriel trusted her judgement. She got the faint feeling she should not, but could not remember why.

"Where's da?" One of the children, the smallest, was standing with her back straight, even though her face was grimy with tears.

"I don't know," the boy replied. He had returned, panting, to the house, to tell them that he had lost Bard somewhere in the town and had no idea where he was. "He'll be back soon, I'm sure."

"Perhaps the dragon went back to sleep," the girl went on. "Surely it would have come by now."

Tauriel was beginning to think the same thing; she was convinced that Smaug's first calling point would have been the town. Perhaps Bard had been wrong; perhaps the beast had not yet awoken.

The dwarves were sitting in a corner, talking in low voices. Between them and the children, Tauriel felt like a giant. She had not spent much time out of the company of her own kind.

A shout. Tauriel's head came up. "What was that?"

"Probably a cat," one of the dwarves muttered. He had a beard of plaited gold, and youth that tied him to Kili. She wondered if they were related. What his name was. "Noisy bastards."

One of the others kicked him. "There are children!"

The children were listening, wide eyed and giggling at the cursing. Tauriel almost felt a smile curve her lips.

The footsteps pounding on the roof came so quickly she barely had time to reach for her knife before the door flew open; a good job – if she'd had the weapon fully in her grasp, she would have thrown it before she'd seen Legolas, with his nose bleeding and his hair wild, framed against the lanterns of the opposite house. He was breathing heavily, and there were bruises forming on his cheeks and forehead.

"Are the orcs dead?" Tauriel said immediately; she would not insult him by asking directly if he needed help, although the shock of seeing him so ragged was enough to make her blink.

"Bolg does not matter now." Legolas took a gasp of air and seemed to steady himself against the doorframe. He held himself oddly; when she looked down, she saw his left knee was bruised and swollen. "The dragon is awake."

The children whimpered in horror. The dwarves, Kili aside, were on their feet in an instant, and the clatter of steel against belt buckles filled the room as they drew their weapons.

Tauriel stepped forward. "Are you sure?"

"I saw it take into the air as I rode toward the forest. We have only minutes before it arrives."

Tauriel looked back at the children, and at the dwarves, and her patient. "We need to get the people onto the lake."

"The town will burn if we do."

"We must let it." She looked at Legolas; his eyes were glowing with the light of expected battle. "We cannot take Smaug on alone. The people are what matter."

Legolas blinked, and the light faded. For a moment, he looked merely tired, and then he nodded, mouth stiff. "I will sound the alarm bell."

"What about da?" The eldest girl had armed herself with a frying pan, and the sight made Tauriel's chest ache, because she was so young, and so brave.

"I will look for him – after I have rung the bell." Legolas turned back to Tauriel. "There are boats – get the people onto them. Do not let them bring anything that is not essential."

Tauriel inclined her head, and Legolas vanished, limping, over the rickety balcony. The dwarves were already moving toward Kili, lifting him onto their shoulders. The eldest girl clutched the youngest. The boy, clinging to his father's bow, was looking her straight in the face; he had a jaw set like rock.

Tauriel checked her knife, and made towards the door. "Follow me."

The next minutes, far too few of them, passed in a blur of crying children and frantic townspeople, all piling into boats, calling to friends and family as they rowed haphazardly into the water. Laketown looked like a hive, with all the bees leaving at once. The warning bells were ringing out over the empty houses, and the dragon, clearly visible in the distance, was growing closer every time Tauriel breathed. She could feel its presence; already she could feel the heat. She had not faced a dragon before, and she did not much want to.

Kili was already on the lake, much to his own protests. The other dwarves had insisted on staying on the dock alongside Tauriel, hustling Bard's children, protesting about the whereabouts of their father, into his barge, which was almost packed with confused and sleepy men and women.

The last seconds passed so quickly that Tauriel did not realise they were gone. One moment, everything was wood. The next, it was fire. The boat burst into flames, was put out by stamping and buckets of water even as it pulled out into the lake. People screamed. Tauriel felt her skin rubbed pink by the heat as one of the dwarves seized the back of her tunic and dragged her, before she understood what was happening, into the still-smouldering ship. A second later, the building she'd been standing under came crashing down; pieces of the dock flew toward them. One of them struck her in the face, bounced off, and vanished into the water with a crackle.

The dragon was so large that it was impossible to see its head, impossible to tell when the flames would next come. The town burned. Tauriel looked to the other boats, searching for Legolas, searching for the flash of bright hair that would tell her he was safe.

She could not find it. Her heart rose in her mouth as, ignoring the shouts of the dwarves, she hopped onto the gunwale of the barge. "Legolas! Answer me!"

No reply. Tauriel shouted again, but her throat was raw with smoke and the sound cracked. There was a chance he could not hear, a chance that he was there and seeing to the wounded, that he was well…

"Tauriel!"

Tauriel's head snapped back towards the burning houses, which were now more than a hundred strides away from their packed boat. Legolas was hurrying along the burning dock, dragging someone behind him – Bard, grimy and soot-stained, coughing, but alive, both of them alive. Legolas was clearly flagging, his face grey with ash and his knee trembling underneath him. Tauriel cursed herself for not thinking to do something about it earlier, but there had been no time, no time…

"Legolas!" She held out a hand, as if it would do any good; the gesture was automatic, instinctive, and completely useless. "Jump!"

The dock next to where the two were standing burst into fiery splinters and collapsed. Legolas jumped sideways, dragging Bard after him, and hastily pushed the man into the water before readying himself to jump after. Tauriel felt relief flood her chest.

Legolas's knee buckled. The delay was minute; a heartbeat, maybe two, as his body tried to steady itself. The dragon bore down, fat crackled, and Tauriel woke, gasping, to find her pillow wet with blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm afraid I've only read LOTR and The Hobbit, and have been using websites to get further information about Tolkein's elves, but as far as I know elves can only die from two things; if you kill one, or of a broken heart.
> 
> Thanks for reading, feedback welcome!
> 
> To be continued.


	3. Broken Hearted

The source of the blood, Tauriel found, after scrabbling around for a moment in the dark, was her nose; it had bled a little after the plank of wood had struck it in Laketown – if she had been any but an elf, it would no doubt have been broken – but she had been too grief-stricken and hurried to pay much attention to it. In the night, her turning must have opened the old wound. She pressed her nose into the crook of her elbow and hurried for the sink, letting the blood wash into it. The pattering sounded like the dripping of the lake water against the shore.

Bard had found the black arrow wrapped in oilcloth at the bottom of his boat, and made for the Wind Lance despite the protests of his son, scrambling up the burning tower, almost falling every step of the way but pushing on regardless. Tauriel had not seen the weapon loaded, too busy trying to extinguish the sparks settling in the sails, but she had heard, as the moon rose, the swish and shriek as the arrow hit its mark. As she had turned, she had been sure she had seen a small bird take into the air from somewhere on Bard's shoulder. But then Smaug had fallen, and the town had vanished, with the crack of breaking wood, under his immense bulk.

For hours afterwards she had stood on the opposite shore of the lake, waiting for Legolas to climb out of the water and come to her, laughing to think that she had ever believed he was dead. Bard crawled from the lake, gasping, burned and dripping, having thrown himself from the tower before it was crushed, to tell her that Legolas had freed him from the Master's jail. Legolas did not come to share in the story. And Tauriel knew, deep down, he could never have survived such an attack.

It was not her fault, she told herself firmly, as the last of the blood trickled away. If she had gone with him to sound the bells, the children and the dwarves might have died. She had not forced him to come back to Laketown. It was not her fault that he had been injured, that his leg had let him down. It was not her fault that he had decided to rescue Bard.

She would be telling herself it wasn't her fault for the rest of her life, but that was not important. Everything she had once thought important had been pushed away from her. Like Kili. He was sweet and kind and talkative, but he was not, could not, be her priority, even if she wanted him to be; she had known all too well that it was her duty to return to the forest, and tell Thranduil what had happened. There had been no chance to say goodbye in the chaos. The dwarves had most likely returned to the Mountain already.

With Legolas gone and Thranduil unwilling to step forward, it was no longer about what Tauriel wanted.

She straightened and pressed a towel to her nose. Light was inching through the window; it must be nearly morning. There was much to do. In lieu of Thranduil, she had a battalion to organise. For a moment, she hesitated. But no; she would not wait longer. It could take two days or more to reach the mountain, and any further delay was not worth it.

She would to go Thranduil and try and convince him to speak to her. If he would not, then she would go alone.

 

* * *

 

There were many things Thranduil did not understand about the place he found himself in. Sometimes, it was so dark that he couldn't see anything, even with his eyes wide open and his mouth croaking into the black in the hope that he would receive a reply. Sometimes, it was impossibly bright, and he had to screw his eyes shut, but every time he tried he found they refused to close, fixed in place until his pupils were shrunken down to pins and he was screaming with pain. Sometimes, there was mist, gathering in vague, confusing shapes that tricked his senses and made him fall. Sometimes, the world shrunk into squares just out of his line of sight, and when he tried to turn his head to see clearly the squares moved with his head, and he turned in dizzy circles until he was growling with frustration.

There were things in the mist and the dark and the blinding light, but they never answered him. He got the impression that they were vaguely threatening. Once, he was sure they touched his arm, and his skin burned for hours afterward. It may not have been hours, but he remembered the word, if not the concept, and it sounded appropriate. He tried to fight, and his hands blistered under the figures' touch, and the blisters vanished as soon as he looked down. He tried to run, and his knees gave out under him. He tried to find somewhere to hide, but there were no corners in this place, only empty spaces that sucked and swirled at his feet and arms.

He didn't know how long it took him to work out that he was looking at the inside of his own head. As soon as he found the realisation, it slipped away.

 

* * *

 

"There is nothing we can do for him."

The healer looked grave. Tauriel wondered if it was a practiced expression, an all-purpose 'nothing we can do' stare. Thranduil was still in his chair, unmoved from the position he'd been in the previous day. Tauriel had found him still there, eyes closed, barely breathing, and she had summoned the healers straight away, because there was a difference between being purposely ignored by someone, and not being able to wake someone up.

In the chaos of preparation, it had not occurred to her that the king's heart might break. Now, the thought hit her like a falling tree.

"Why not?" she demanded. Her mouth still tasted of iron from the morning.

"There is nothing physically wrong with him."

Tauriel's eyes flicked to the scar on the king's face and wondered if this was something they were all choosing to ignore. Thranduil surely must have had the wound tended to when he first received it.

"Then what is wrong? Is it his…heart?" She all but whispered the last word, feeling her throat tighten.

"He is grieving…it is possible…"

"Possible that what?"

The healer looked toward his companion, who had long chestnut hair and eyes the colour of hazel branches. She inclined her head. "When the king lost his wife he was returned to us from the North by Elrond. The king had awoken from a fever, briefly, heard the news, and gone into a trance-like state."

The first healer nodded, twisting the ring on his finger as he did so. "We tried every remedy we could think of, to no avail. Even Elrond could do nothing for him. Eventually, he woke from it, but it was not due to our efforts."

"What was it due to?" Tauriel burst out, frustrated.

"The prince." The healers exchanged a glance. "He was young; he was barred from the room, in case he was disturbed by his father's appearance, but he found his way into the chambers when no-one was looking. He started crying and the king woke. He never told us the details of why he slept in the first place, but…"

"I can guess," Tauriel murmured. "It was a form of protection." So that he couldn't die from grief. She didn't say the last part out loud; she couldn't bring herself to.

"We cannot say when he'll recover. If ever. This time…"

Tauriel ground her palm into her forehead. "This time Legolas isn't here." The words tugged at her chest; the amount of grief Thranduil had seen in his lifetime was staggering. And yet, he was trying. He had not died. "This information will be kept between ourselves and the council. We do not want panic when half our army is in Laketown."

The guard with the chestnut hair bit her lip. "We do not know when – or if – he will recover. Perhaps the council in his stead could go to the lake."

Tauriel shook her head. "The situation is too precarious. Everything is in turmoil; Laketown is burned to ashes, the dwarves are dead or in hiding. There may be war; we need soldiers, not advisors. If we appear divided, we will not hold against either the men or the dwarves." She straightened her back, trying to ignore the hunched figure in the corner of her eye. "I am the captain of the guard, and I will support the men's claim to their share of the treasure. It is the least Laketown deserves."

The healers looked at each other. "And Greenwood?"

"The Council is more than capable of keeping control here."

"I am not sure that they will agree to this."

Tauriel resisted the urge to growl. "I have been to Laketown; I saw the dragon slain." That was not all she had seen, or smelled – the scent of burning fat was one she would not forget in a long time. "I do not do this because I want to."

The healer nodded, though his companion only dipped her head once, to the left, to show she had heard.

Tauriel swallowed. "Make the king comfortable; ensure that he has anything he might need, and try to wake him."

"It will not work."

"Nevertheless, you will try," Tauriel said. Her voice bit like ice, even in her own ears. Already, she was sounding more like Thranduil. "Now, go. Consult scrolls and books, do what you must, but find a cure."

"Yes, Captain."

"Yes, Captain."

The healers left. Tauriel scrubbed a thumb across her eyebrow, and felt ash trickle onto her skin. She didn't think she'd ever be rid of it. The painting of Legolas and Thranduil had been picked up and moved to one of the tables in the room, a delicate thing with spindly legs and a finely carved surface. Tauriel eyed it for a moment, then crossed the room, picked up the table, and brought it, painting and all, to rest by Thranduil's right elbow – she avoided looking at the side of his face as much as possible.

"This isn't going to be easy," she murmured, talking without thinking, not believing for a moment that he could hear her, or that he would be able to do anything about it, even if he could. The portrait toppled when she tried to stand it, so she hunted for a book of suitable size to prop it upright. "I do not want to do this. I would rather turn it over to your council. But there is going to be war; we can't have command divided, not in Laketown itself."

The portrait, finally, was still. Tauriel hesitated a moment, then took a handful of Thranduil's hair and pulled it over the side of his face, covering the scarring as best she could. He had kept it hidden so long, she doubted he would want it on display now, even if it was only to people who already knew.

"The council will try and stop me, but they won't be able to. Once word starts coming back about the state of Erebor, they will have to let me go."

Hair slid through her fingers as she let the last of it fall into place. She was talking to him as if he were Legolas, Legolas on a good day, when he was flushed and smiling and friendly. It was probably a good job that Thranduil could not hear her.

"I am giving you a chance. Wake up – you did it last time, I know you did. And I know he's not here now, and…" Her voice cracked. "I am sorry. I am sorry he's gone, and I wish I could change it." Her nostrils flared as she took a breath. "I can't. But the rest of us are still here." She cast a sidelong glance at Thranduil, and almost smiled. "I know you still care."

The room, when she left it, was just as silent as when she had entered. She hesitated a moment outside the door, shook herself, and began to make her way to the council chambers.

 

* * *

 

Tauriel had been right – the council did not like her. There were twelve of them altogether, and at first only three were willing to grant her the right to put her argument forth, let alone agree with it. She had known they were more insular even than Thranduil; any suggestion of sending troops beyond Greenwood seemed to fill them with fear. Two of the more vocal seemed to be halfway to accusing her of treason, but she did not let it phase her. Within an hour, she had brought three-quarters round to her point of view. By dinnertime, there was only one who did not approve her plan to support Laketown's claims, and he was eventually beaten down by the others. The soldiers she had ordered to be equipped were allowed to prepare themselves unmolested.

The next hours passed in a flurry of messages, from scouts, from guards, from the healers; Tauriel barely had time to answer one note before another was brought to her door. She ate little and slept when she was not working, which was rarely. Soon, her eyes were bruised and heavy. Suddenly, the king's ever-prickly demeanour seemed justified; it took all her effort not to bite off the head of every other messenger who stepped through her door.

There was no change in Thranduil and too many changes everywhere else. Too many for her to stay in Greenwood; too many for her to hope Thranduil would wake in time.

At dawn, less than a week after its prince had died and its king had been driven mad, Greenwood was marching to Erebor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, feedback welcome!
> 
> To be continued.
> 
> (I promise that we will see Bard and Laketown in the next chapter; I am hoping to have it up early).


	4. Long Lake

The destruction looked no better in the daytime than it had in the dark. Clearly, there had been no time for the people of the lake to even start rebuilding their homes, and Tauriel didn't blame them; there was nothing left to build from. She had ordered extra supplies in the knowledge that there would be refugees to feed, but she had underestimated the number of totally homeless. There was no-one who had not lost their house. Even the Master of Laketown she found in a makeshift tent, although he seemed to have got his hands on good bread and cheese. The thought irritated Tauriel as she stood, waiting for him to finish.

The Master stuffed the last of his lunch into his mouth, raised his head and gave her a smile that was as cold as a dead fish. He did not motion for her to sit, despite the fact that there was a small stool opposite the bench he was using as a table.

"Who are you and what do you want?" The Master grunted as he folded his arms across his chest.

"I am Tauriel, Captain of the Guards of the Woodland Realm. I have come representing King Thranduil, Son of Oropher." Tauriel glanced at the servant, a slimy man with slimier teeth, who was hovering in the background. "I would rather we talk in private."

"Nonsense. Alfrid goes where I go."

Tauriel resisted the urge snap. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and opened them again. "I really think that this would best be conducted alone."

"Why?" The Master raised an eyebrow. "What are you afraid of? What are you planning?"

"I am planning nothing. I am simply used to privacy when it comes to serious matters."

"What you're used to in your ruddy trees isn't what we're used to here. Alfrid stays, or you can leave."

She was tempted, but knew there were people who needed help, and, if her instincts were right, they wouldn't get it if she left this man in charge, alone. If Thorin was in Erebor – and word seemed to support the fact, because Kili and the others had gone to the Mountain and had had no cause to return – they would have a far better chance of getting what they needed if there were two of them applying pressure. It was her duty to try and work with the Master, tiresome as he may be. Over the years, Laketown and Greenwood had built a strong relationship, on the surface at least; Thranduil's good taste in food had no doubt kept most of the town afloat the past years. Although, to judge from the ragged state of Bard's children, and the fine, if water stained, clothes the master was wearing, not all of that profit had been equally shared.

Tauriel bit down on her pride and, to some extent, her common sense when it came to not allowing negotiations to be overheard by anyone who didn't need to know, and nodded. "Very well. May I sit?"

The Master sniffed. "If you must."

Tauriel sat. When the Master did not initiate further conversation, she pushed it herself. "You are an intelligent man; I am sure you have guessed why I am here."

"Trying to get your hands on the Mountain, no doubt," the Master grunted. "I wondered how long it would be before your kind showed your faces."

Tauriel flinched, trying to force her pride and loyalty down. It was difficult; she was sure that if the Master had been confronted by Thranduil himself, he would not dare be so rude. She must make him believe she was just as great a force to be reckoned with.

"Please, do not refer to my kin in such a way. If the wrong members of my party were to overhear, you might come to regret it."

The Master staggered to his feet, outraged spittle flying from between his sagging lips. "Are you… _daring_ to threaten me?"

"Not at all." Tauriel fixed a smile on her face and remained seated, crossing her hands in her lap and wishing that she had not had her knives removed at the entrance to the tent. It made her feel vulnerable, like a snail on a plate. "I am simply cautioning you. My people are as proud and loyal as your own, and they would not take well to being insulted when we have come all this way to aid you."

Slowly, the Master returned his bottom to the chair. "Aid us?"

"Much has been lost due to the actions of Thorin and his company. I have brought supplies and tools, but if your people are to reclaim their lives, we must go to the Mountain, and demand compensation. I am sure Thorin promised you a share before he left. Now is the time to retrieve it."

"Why should you care about us?"

"Laketown has long been a friend to the Woodland Realm. We do not turn away from the plight of our allies." She hesitated. The Master was as trustworthy as thin ice and she did not want to tell him more than necessary. Going to Erebor and the treasure was not what she needed to persuade the Master of; he was no doubt already planning his own method of approach. What she needed was to convince him was that she came to aid without taking. For that, she needed to reveal more, or he would never be convinced. "Greenwood, too, has suffered. I would have Thorin answer for his actions."

"And what has Mirkwood lost?"

Tauriel flinched at the Master's stubborn use of the name. "Some of our people were in the town when it was attacked, myself included. Not all of them made it out alive. This is a matter that has affected both our realms. If we have to force Thorin's hand, it will be easier with two."

The Master stroked a hand through his grimy hair. "Then why does the King not come himself? If this is so important to him, it seems strange for him to send someone in his place." The Master ran an eye over her. "And a woman at that."

"I assure you, I am perfectly capable of leading an army, if necessary," Tauriel bit out, before she could stop herself. "I have not come here to be insulted. The King cannot come in person – there is trouble south of our realm, and he must remain behind to ensure it does not encroach further." It was only half a lie; that trouble was brewing, she was sure of.

"Doesn't seem like us 'allies' are so important to him, after all," the Master grunted. "If he can't be bothered to make the journey downriver."

"Nevertheless, he has sent me. Our help will be invaluable if you are to get what you need from Erebor. I beg you to consider the offer; if you fail in negotiation with Thorin, your people will starve by winter." Seeing that the man's face did not even twitch at the mention of this, Tauriel changed tact. "The rewards of succeeding, on the other hand, would be great."

The Master pulled at his moustache, a bitty, pointless thing that Tauriel had work hard not to laugh at. The servant, Alfrid, scuttled forward and hissed something in the Master's ear. A flurry of secretive conversation passed between the two as Tauriel sat, pretending that she was not angry or insulted and wishing more than anything that she had Legolas by her side; his royal presence would have shaken the Master to his fur-lined boots. On the other hand, if Legolas had been beside her, it would not have been her sitting here, but Thranduil. She wondered how long she could keep Legolas's death from the Master, or if it was a good idea to do so, but before she could come to a decision there was a cough, and the Master was on his feet, motioning for her to stand. Tauriel obeyed.

"Your offer is a…interesting one. I will think about it. In the meantime, your troops are welcome to make camp wherever they can find."

Tauriel fixed the smile back onto her face, feeling like her teeth were made of rocks. She knew the Master would accept her help – he had no choice if he wanted to get his hands on a share of any of the dragon's hoard – and that he was simply putting her in her place by making her wait for him. Whilst his people went hungry and cold. Tauriel could have screamed, but she did not. She could not afford to lose her temper with him.

"Thank you."

They shook hands. His was greasy and unpleasantly warm, like slightly-rotten food. Tauriel took her leave as soon as the pleasantry was over, retrieving her knives from the cheerless man who guarded the tent flaps. Her anger was seething in her chest as she set off at a dizzy pace, desperate to put as much distance between herself and the unpleasant blister of a man as she could before she did something rash. She had planned to walk toward the lake shore in attempt to cool herself before addressing the troops, but before she could make it to the water a voice brought her to a halt.

"Miss?"

Tauriel turned to see one of Bard's girls, the youngest, hovering on the edge of a scorched hummock and fiddling with the bottom of her dress. The faded material was full of holes, the collar limp and sad, and the girl still had soot in her hair, but she gave Tauriel a nervous smile.

Tauriel couldn't help but smile back, a little. There were few children in the Woodland Realm; few amongst her people. She had never desired any of her own, but in the short time she had known them, Bard's had grown on her.

"Hello."

The girl flushed. "Hello."

"What is your name? I am afraid I never had time to ask it of you."

"Tilda." Tilda paused, then took a cautious step forward. "What's yours?"

"Tauriel." She held out a hand, and Tilda took it. "Do you want something?"

"Da said that we should thank you."

Tauriel raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

Tilda drew her foot round in a circle, making a rut in the dust and ash. Her cheeks were bright red with nerves. Tauriel reached into her pockets, trying to find something to give the girl, but she'd left her pack with her troops.

"You saved us from the Orcs, and you helped us into the boat."

"You don't have to thank me for that."

Tilda shrugged. "Alright then."

Tauriel's hand came against something in her pocket, and she pulled it out. A nut. She didn't remember pocketing it, but it looked fresh and she held it out. "Here."

Tilda stretched out a dirty hand. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

"Where did you go?" Tilda stuffed the nut into her mouth and chewed. "Da didn't think you were coming back."

Tauriel frowned. "Why did he say that?"

"Because of your friend."

A shiver went through Tauriel's spine, and she felt herself stiffen. For a moment, she'd forgotten what had happened to Legolas. The remembrance hit her like a wall and made her skin prickle with guilt. "What did he tell you about Le-…about my friend?" She did not dare speak Legolas's name; if the Master were to hear the king's son was dead, he would assume she was going to double cross him, and take the Mountain for herself. If he had not been recognised before his death, then she would be grateful, and keep quiet.

"He just said he was dead, and that he was very brave."

"He was."

"You're very brave too."

Tauriel's breath caught in her throat, but before she could choke out some form of reply a shout rang out across the lakeshore.

"Tilda!"

There was the patter of footsteps as Tauriel hauled herself upright, looking to see Bard and his other daughter hurrying towards them. Bard had his great bow slung across his back. The older girl was carrying mushrooms in her apron.

"Tilda, I told you not to run off," Tilda's sister scolded, taking hold of her Tilda's sleeve and giving it a pull. "This lady is probably very busy, you must leave her alone."

"But-"

"Go with Sigrid," Bard said gruffly, coming to a halt a few feet in front of Tauriel and inclining his head in a short bow.

Tauriel returned the gesture. "Really, it was no imposition."

"Da-"

"I said go."

The two girls went, trudging back in a manner far too weary for ones so young. Bard let out a sigh, but when he spoke his voice was firm. "I wanted to thank you."

"You killed the dragon, not I."

"You saved my children. For that, I am ever in your debt."

"I would rather you were my ally than my debtor."

Bard hesitated, and for a moment Tauriel thought she had somehow angered him. And then he laughed. "If you are dealing with the Master, I am not the ally you want. He can't throw me in jail a second time because the people won't let him; I was right about the dwarves, and he was wrong. He's been forced to work with me, but he'll be doing everything in his power to poison my soup. The people wanted to make me their leader, for a little while. An absurd notion." Bard chuckled, but it sounded it strained. "The Master won't forget it, though. If he thinks you're working with me behind his back he'll start trying to undermine you too."

Irritation left a bitter taste on Tauriel's tongue. "He is a fool."

"He's also in charge. If you don't want to leave the people to his grasping devices, we cannot let him know we're on anything more than speaking terms."

Tauriel frowned; she wanted Bard on her side. He was strong and he was clever, and he commanded more respect than his ruler ever could. On the other hand, she could not afford to fall out of favour with the Master; if he were pushed out of an alliance at this stage, he could well make trouble for them.

"He said he would think my offer of aid over."

"He will accept it, if nothing gets in the way." Bard swept a hand over the ramshackle camp, the limping and frightened people. "We've been here less than a week, and people are already dying of cold and disease. We need your strength, not just your food."

"And the Mountain?"

Bard's lip curled. "Of course. The dragon's hoard."

"I have not come here to take it."

"I did not say that."

"The Master did."

Bard snorted. "Only because it's all that's on his mind."

"The people need that gold if they are to rebuild Laketown." Tauriel tapped her hand against the hilt of her knife, thinking. "I cannot allow them to be cheated."

"Nor I." Bard hesitated for a moment – Tauriel watched the features of his face flickering as the thoughts passed behind his eyes – and then seemed to come to a decision. "The Master has been holding all councils in private. We must take his meetings in front of the people; let them decide what they want and how they are to get it."

"He will not like it."

"He will be outvoted, if you take my side, and must go outside. After that, the people will force his hand."

Tauriel nodded; she would have to think of personal reasons to bring the council to the people if she and Bard were unwilling to admit their previous alliance, but she was sure she would think of something reasonable enough for the Master. She had made more complex decisions in far more dangerous situations. The dragon was dead. The Master was nothing in comparison.

Bard turned away. Tauriel had almost decided to carry on to the water's edge when he seemed to change his mind and looked back. The wind caught his hair and pulled it over his ears. He looked weary. "I am sorry. About your friend. If I had not been arrested, he would not have been delayed trying to free me."

"It was not your fault." They both knew it wasn't true, just as she told herself it was not  _her_ fault, over and over until her eyes could bleed from the effort. It was no-one's fault, and it was everyone's. "He did the right thing."

Bard looked surprised. "I did not think you would forgive me so readily."

"This is not the time for anger."

Bard nodded his head, once. The movement was jerking, almost false, but she understood his guilt, and she would not push him further.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, feedback welcome!
> 
> To be continued.
> 
> (I swear that we will see more of Thranduil in the next chapter).


	5. Fight Fire

"You must not smother me so, Adar."

Thranduil sighed. The throne was cold underneath his legs; winter had come early, and Legolas had been making a nuisance of himself to the guards, trying to join them on missions he was far too young to consider.

"I only want to keep you safe."

"I do not need to be kept safe!" Legolas's face was red with frustration. "I am not a dog; you cannot command me to stay by your side because it pleases you!"

Thranduil took a deep breath, and forced himself to calm. This argument was far from a new one. "Do you think it pleases me to have you grow so…bitter?"

"I think you are so afraid of what happened to Naneth that you will never let me out of your sight."

A shudder went through Thranduil's shoulders, from his back to his hips until he could feel his heart trembling between his lungs. He was angry, because what Legolas said was true, and yet he could hardly breathe for grief.

"You must let me  _live_ , Adar, or I will die of frustration."

Thranduil's hands tightened over his throne until his knuckles turned a sickly white. Sweat was building on his upper lip from the effort of not allowing tears to come to the eye that could still produce them.

"I…"

"Adar, please." Legolas took a step forward. "I have trained all my life." Another step. His son's face was still red with the effort of their fight. "What happened to Naneth was not your fault. You do not need to recompense for it by keeping me like I were made of glass. I will not run away. I will not put myself in any danger I cannot handle."

Thranduil's hand trembled as Legolas's touched his own. He wanted so much to never let Legolas out of his sight; he had let her out of his sight, just once, and then it had been too late, too late…

He could not bear to see Legolas so unhappy.

Thranduil let out a gasp and bowed his head. "Yes. Alright." Legolas's hand tightened around his own. "Alright."

There was only silence. Thranduil looked up. Legolas's eyes were distant. His face was still bright red. Thranduil frowned.

Legolas burst into flames.

Thranduil pulled his hand back with a jerk, letting out a harsh cry. Legolas stayed perfectly still as fire licked up his shirt and wrapped themselves around his neck. Hair caught alight with a crackle.

Thranduil, shaking off shock, forced himself to his feet, bringing up his robes and pressing them over Legolas's face in a desperate attempt to smother the flames. Again and again he threw himself at the fire and again and again it restarted, until the silver silk was burned through and he was using his bare hands against the flames, screaming for water that no-one brought.

The throne and the forest turned to black, and Legolas turned to ash, and Thranduil was left cradling the remnants of his hands, burned to bone and still blistering, weeping in the darkness and wishing he knew where he was.

 

* * *

 

 

Bard had clearly been doing his work amongst the people; even as Tauriel entered the Master's tent for the morning council there was a crowd gathering, and by the time the Master sat down and bade them begin, they had to speak loudly to be heard over the murmuring and shuffling.

The Master fiddled with his moustache as Tauriel and Bard sat. The only other member of the company was Alfrid, whom Tauriel regarded with distaste until the Master's voice drew her attention.

"I have decided to accept your most…generous offer of help."

Tauriel forced a smile onto her face. It sat oddly, like dried mud. "I am glad."

"The people also," Bard added, "are eager to approach the Mountain. I have been talking-"

"I'll bet you have," the Master murmured, looking at his hands. His rings were large and ugly.

Bard frowned, and went on. "I have been talking amongst the town's elders. They want to bring the meetings into the open; vote upon what we are to do next."

The Master's head snapped up. "Never! We cannot have our affairs turned over to anyone who fancies listening in."

"The people have a right to decide what they want," Bard said. His voice was very calm.

"I think Bard is right." Tauriel hurried on before the Master could turn on her, choosing her words with care. "There is no point in us reaching decisions within this tent only to find we do not have enough popular support for them."

The Master looked between the two of them suspiciously, narrowing his eyes and clicking his tongue as Tauriel gritted her teeth and endured the wasted time.

"Oh, very well," the Master muttered. "Alfrid, bring my chair."

 

* * *

 

The day was bright and cold, and Thranduil's sword had been bitten by frost in the night. He knelt outside his tent, breath rising in puffs around his ears as he thawed it in front of the fire, ice running to water along his fingertips. The rocks were slippery; this was no place to linger. They had to pass through the Mountains quickly. Who knew what filth was lingering in their wrinkles and creases, waiting to jump out?

She came to the doorway then, her hair around her neck and her robes pulled close around her breast. "Come back inside."

Thranduil shook his head. He turned back to the fire. "We must move. Elrond is waiting for us in the North; I cannot afford to be late. The dragons grow stronger all the time."

A sigh. "You will kill yourself completing other's tasks."

"You would not allow me to." Thranduil felt a smile curve his lips. "But this, I must do."

She nodded, and reached for the locket around her neck; he did not need her to open it to know the picture inside, one she had painted herself of their son with his hands stretched toward the ceiling, reaching for something out of the tiny frame.

"I miss him."

Thranduil bit his lip. "He is too young to come."

"I know."

"We will see him soon." Thranduil's armour shifted against the crook of his elbow as he lifted his sword. "I will wake the troops. You had best get your armour."

She inclined her head, but did not move. He could see her bow, of fine red oak, resting against the tent wall behind her.

"Go," he murmured. "We must leave within the hour."

She laughed. "You need not worry yourself; there are no dragons here."

 

* * *

 

Bard and Tauriel stood outside the tent whilst the Master sat, still grumbling under his breath. The people had gathered themselves in a semi-circle, wrapped in shawls and cloaks and shivering in the morning mist. Tauriel could see her own troops standing a little behind, listening intently.

The Master raised his hand, and the crowd fell silent. "People. My people. You have suffered."

Shouts of agreement. The Master waited for them to die, then went on.

"You have suffered and, rightly, you want recompense. We – myself included – were all seduced by the lies of the dwarves. Now, our recompense lies with them, in the Mountain. The elves have come to offer us their help, which I have accepted. We will gather our men-at-arms, we will march to Thorin, and demand he pay for his broken promises."

The people shuffled their feet and muttered amongst themselves. One or two seemed immediately drawn to the Master's plan, but most were holding back.

"I want a roof over my head before I do anything else!" someone shouted.

"The winter is almost upon us – I will not have my children freeze whilst I waste time with Thorin!"

The Master blinked. Tauriel caught Bard's eye, but could read nothing in his expression. The crowd were pressing forward in a gaggle of confused demands and protests.

"People!" Bard's voice commanded instant silence in a way the Master's never could. "I fully understand your claims. I, too, have lost my home. I, too, have children to feed. But I would beg you not to be so hasty as to pass over Thorin and his company. The elves have offered us help, yes, but it cannot be given with no price. If we are to build new homes, we must have gold. It is a truth I wish I did not have to tell, but that does not change the fact that it  _is_  the truth."

There was a muttering that turned into a hum and then to a rumble. The people looked far from convinced, and Tauriel did not blame them; they had been tricked once before into believing the Mountain held the solution to all their problems. The Master and Bard were both governors at heart, even if Bard did not yet know it of himself. They saw the long-term survival of Laketown was in peril, and were working to fix it. But that was not what the people saw. And Tauriel, ever the soldier, held both the demands in her mind, weighed, she imagined, behind her eyes. The situation needed to be balanced.

She stepped forward. "I think I have a solution."

The Master shifted in his chair, and Bard's bow rapped against the tent poles as he turned. The people were quiet again. She took a breath.

"I have with me both soldiers and crafters. The soldiers will march on the Mountain with you to negotiate with Thorin. The others will stay behind and gather timber. Under the instruction of those of you not able to go the Mountain, they will help you rebuild the town. I have enough supplies to feed us until winter, and if winter comes and we have got nowhere with Thorin, I will send for more."

The people muttered approvingly. Tauriel felt a knot she hadn't realised had been building her stomach begin to loosen.

"I move that the Master stay by the Lake, to oversee the new buildings." Bard spoke so suddenly that Tauriel jumped. The Master spluttered with outrage. Bard ignored the both of them. "His fine leadership will be of great assistance in helping create a new town."

Tauriel, desperate as she was to leave the Master behind – his and Thorin's tempers would be a poor mix when it came to dragon gold – did not dare defy the man as completely as Bard had, in case the people grew suspicious, and abandoned their plans for Thorin. She stayed silent, but needn't have worried; already the people were speaking their approval, drowning out the Master's protests and Alfrid's shouts for order.

 

* * *

 

"That was foolish," Tauriel said, when the darkness had fallen and she had divided her troops between Laketown and the Mountain. Bard was seeing to his bow; his hair fell into his eyes as he rubbed it with fat. "The Master will be looking for an excuse to lock you up again, or worse."

"He cannot do it. The people know I killed the dragon. For some reason, it makes them want to listen to me." Bard looked up. His eyes were dark with exhaustion. "I might as well use that as best I can."

"They want to listen to you because you are a good man." Tauriel sighed, and stirred the fire. "I am not sure leaving him to his own devices amongst the people is a good idea."

"Taking him to Thorin is a worse one, and you know it. We need the people, and we need his approval, but to have him and Throin within the same mile is inviting trouble. You wanted rid of him as much as I, and your solution presented an opportunity to leave him behind without letting the people believe we were conspiring against him."

"Yes. But we might get back and find we have a rebellion on our hands."

Bard scraped the fat along his bow with a soft hiss. "Not if we come back with a portion of the treasure."

"And if we do not?"

Bard laughed. "If that's the case, I don't think there's any point in us coming back at all."

They sat in silence for a little while. Tauriel tipped her head back and looked at the stars, and pretended the memories they brought to her were not sad. Cold and distant. She saw now what Kili had meant.

"What happened to them?"

Bard glanced at her. "Who?"

"Kili – the injured dwarf and his friends. I heard they had gone back to the Mountain."

"They did, as soon as the boats were landed. Sensible of them – if they'd been on the shore when the people had gathered their wits they could have faced a lynch mob for what Thorin did."

"I suppose so."

"Do you wish you had not stayed to heal him?"

Tauriel could feel the stars shining on the back of her neck. "There was no guarantee I would not have returned to help with the dragon, even if I had left Kili to die."

"You would not have done that. You're too kind."

Tauriel snorted. "I do not intend to be kind to Thorin when I see him."

"Where your king?"

The question came so suddenly that Tauriel had no time to formulate a reply before her silence became suspicious. She opened her mouth, then shut it again, feeling foolish.

"You cannot make me believe that he has locked himself away from this. I know he can be reclusive, but he is not one to turn away from his allies, not now the worst danger has passed."

"He has not turned away; I am here, am I not?"

Bard shook his head. "Don't lie to me."

"The friend I brought with me to Laketown, who died, was Prince Legolas. His son."

There was a long pause, and Tauriel felt her spine shifting under her skin as she tried to prevent her ribs shaking. Grief was sneaking up on her again, and she had no time for it. She tried to push it away.

"I am sorry. I did not know."

"The Master does not either. If he did, he would have questioned my motives in coming here."

Bard's bow was by his feet again. The fire crackled and spat, but neither of them moved to poke it. "And the king?"

"Grief-stricken."

"Ah."

Tauriel rested her head on her hand and her elbow on her knee, deliberately making the position uncomfortable because it was easier to focus on that than the multitude of problems currently making their homes in the back of her mind. "You do not believe me."

"He would not allow Thorin to go unpunished for this. He would come. Is he ill?"

"In a way. You would not understand."

Bard's face flickered. "Wouldn't I?"

"Greif is different for us. It is hard, when you know you must bear it on your shoulders for thousands of years." Tears were pricking at Tauriel's eyes, and she took a deep breath, throat quivering. "Please."

Bard fell silent. They said nothing else for the rest of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, feedback welcome!
> 
> To be continued.


	6. Laying Siege

The brightness had come to him again; had crept up amongst the darkness and flooded Thranduil's every sense with harsh light and ringing bells.

In some ways, he remembered this place. In others, he remembered nothing; even his own name had become distant to him. In the brightness and the dark he staggered around, blind, with no-one to hear him shouting for help, with nothing but the knowledge he was lost. Sometimes he stumbled into something, and then the memories came back. He thought they came back. Perhaps they were happening. Perhaps he was dead, and this was punishment for letting them die.

Who was 'them'? He had forgotten again. But they were important.

He struggled to his feet, stumbled, and threw out a hand in the hope of finding a wall or support. His arm went through nothing, his body gave a jerk and he fell, hitting something hard with a jolt that made his head snap back and his jaw click together. When he stood, the throne room surrounded him like warm water. Thranduil let out a sigh of relief, wondering when he had walked in. For some reason, he couldn't remember what had brought him here. Probably a council meeting. Or Legolas, wanting to ask something of him.

Footsteps sounded in the corridor outside, and Thranduil turned to see his son enter the room, hair loose and dirt smeared on his face. Ah, Thranduil remembered now. Legolas must have been on patrol.

"Adar." Legolas smiled. "The nests have been routed out and killed. The spiders will not be back for some time."

"Casualties?"

"None."

Thranduil's shoulders relaxed, and he reached for Legolas. "Come."

"Adar…I am too old for this."

"Nonsense. There is no-one here."

Legolas reluctantly stepped forward, and Thranduil reached out to put his arms around him, but he must have misjudged the distance; his hands passed through air and kept going. Thranduil stumbled, and blinked. Legolas had stepped back a pace and was standing with his shoulders loose and his arms by his side.

"I forgot."

"What did you forget?" Thranduil murmured, wondering why his son had stepped away; why he looked so sad. "I am sure we can right it."

"No."

"I am your father, Legolas, I can right anything."

"You cannot. You cannot help." Legolas was stepping further and further away, until Thranduil felt the need to follow him, or stop breathing.

"What is it? Legolas, please…"

"I am dead, Adar."

Thranduil halted in his tracks, head spinning. His mouth fell open; a breeze seemed to pass over his lips as he stretched out a hand. "No. No, you're here."

Legolas only smiled. All of a sudden, he seemed far away.

"No! No I can help!" Thranduil ran to Legolas and snatched at him, but he could not touch him, just as he could not touch smoke. Legolas was fading from him. "Legolas!" He was on his knees, but he did not remember getting there. He was begging. "I can protect you. Please, stay."

"This is your fault. You weren't there."

Thranduil looked up. Legolas's eyes were very blue, and very cruel. His lip curled, and he raised a hand as if to strike Thranduil around the face, but the blow never connected, because Legolas's arm was already winking out of existence.

"You weren't there for her, and you weren't for me."

Thranduil slid forward on his knees, trying to catch hold of the wisps that had been his son, his throat raw with panic. "Please, let me explain…"

"You're too late, Adar."

"Please…"

Legolas was gone. Thranduil gave up trying to catch him, gave up trying to stand, and let himself curl, pressing his hands into his face until he split the skin with his fingernails.

 

* * *

 

Tauriel looked to the Mountain, and dismay dropped like ash onto her tongue, making her words sour and dry.

"I should have expected this."

A wall filled the entire entrance; the dwarves had piled the rocks thick and high. A dam had been created across the river, which pooled in a lake at the foot of the Mountain. There was no way in that she could see from this distance; the water didn't look deep, but she didn't trust anyone sent to swim it not to be filled with arrows. Clearly, the dwarves were half mad with paranoia. Or worse.

She shuddered at the memories and stories that came to her. Gold sickness. Of all the things she'd been sure she would have to face, she had not bargained on this.

"What is it?" Bard had come up from the camp they had formed in the night, was squinting in the dawn light; Tauriel kept forgetting the poor sight of men.

"The dwarves have blocked the entrance," called a few of the braver Lakemen, who had gone on ahead and were straddling the boulders.

"We will move the camp to the east of the river," Tauriel murmured. "Thorin cannot fail to see us if we are right outside his front door."

Bard raised an eyebrow. "Surely, we should try reasoning with him. Perhaps they were merely defending the Mountain against the dragon."

Tauriel shook her head; as much as she wished it to be true, she knew it was not. "Gold-sickness does not allow for reason."

"I've heard tell of it. Is it as bad as the stories?"

"Worse, most likely." Tauriel felt her lip curl. "The mind chokes under desire. Thorin will not let go, he will not forgive. If we want what is right for the people, we will have to fight for it."

Bard's forehead creased. "We do not want war."

"I did not say we did." Tauriel sighed. "We will ask him to be reasonable. But I do not think there will be much good in it."

 

* * *

 

Thranduil's head was turned towards her, something useless and light passing between his lips; she was laughing when the dragon ripped itself from behind the spire of rock. It was clever; it did not bear down from above and give them time to run for cover. It gave no warning roar. One moment, the sky was blue, and she was laughing. The next, the ground shook and a shadow fell across her face. Thranduil jerked his head up, saw the dragon, screamed an order, and ducked. The flames scorched a line of burns across his back, and he felt his lips curl in agony. She was beside him, gasping. Her hand reached for his head and grasped it; Thranduil heard something crackle as the fire in his hair went out.

"Up!" he shouted to his army. "Make for the caves!"

The overhang of rocks to their left would have been a quicker choice, but it was too high up for Thranduil to believe that the dragon wouldn't simply lower its head and scorch them as they huddled under it. The caves were further away, and they would have to crawl to get into them, but they were smaller than even the dragon's lower jawbone; there was little chance the beast could get a burst of flame into them.

She seized him by the hand and dragged him to his feet; her beautiful bow had half-crumbled to ash. His sword had escaped the worst of the heat, but it would be no use against a dragon. The bow would have been better, but it was far from the only one in the army. All was not lost. The distress had already been sounded on the horn, and Elrond would have scouts amongst the mountains. This was not the end, he told himself, heart pounding as he began to run. They would not die today.

As he stumbled on gravel and flint turned his head to look behind him and saw a group of his guard, hemmed in by the dragon, spears and banners raised, screaming. The dragon was picking them off in fives and tens, sending blasts of flame in lines and watching them scatter and regroup, scatter and regroup. Thranduil's heart shuddered. They needed a distraction, but most of the army had already thrown itself into the caves. Only a handful of the others still lagged behind.

The dragon reared on its hind legs and came down with a crash that shook the earth and sent rocks crumbling around their ears. The guards screamed. And Thranduil knew he could not leave them.

"With me!" he shouted, pointing to those that remained in the open. "To the left!"

They snapped to attention immediately, readying swords. He turned to her. "Get to the caves."

"I'll go with you." The remains of her bow were in her hand, leaving ash along her burned palm.

He shook his head, and, because he had not time to convince her with words, swept the ruined bow from her hand. It shattered against the rocks. Her eyebrows knotted, and she reached for the spare short-sword he kept at his waist.

"I am not a coward, and you will not treat me as one."

There was no time. Thranduil's men were already gathering to the left of the dragon, shaking in their boots as it roared and reeled, and they needed the voice of command or he would have ordered them to their deaths.

The ground continued to shudder under his feet as he ran to them, raising an arm. "Bowmen! Aim for the eyes and the wings – we must only draw its attention until the others can reach the caves." Within the caves they would have time to place the precise shots and bring the beast to ground so it could be finished with swords. Thranduil skidded into his place at the head of the men, keeping low so the arrows would have clear trajectory. "Wait for my signal."

He felt her presence settle at his side, clearing his head and making his heart clench. The guards under attack were rapidly thinning, and the dragon seemed to know it. With a final roar lowered its head, belly glowing orange.

Thranduil swept his arm down. "Now!"

A hail of arrows whistled over his head and peppered the dragon. Seven or eight lodged in its left eye and some tore the fine membrane of its wings, but many more rattled off armour and bone. The dragon shook its head and roared. The guards, saved from being burned to the bone, took their cue and began to run for the caves. The dragon, spraying blood and screaming in anger, turned towards the source of the arrows.

"Back!" Thranduil roared, turning on his heel and motioning with his sword. "Retreat!"

It was a race now; them against the dragon fire. They had only the amount of time it took for the dragon to summon the flames, and the caves were far off. As Thranduil ran behind his men, her hands and hair flashing in the corner of his eye, he was glad to see the army had had the presence of mind to begin to drag stones and boulders to the mouths of the caves. They would protect from the worst of the heat and yet…and yet…

There were only two caves still open, and one was too far distant. Thranduil hastily wrenched himself to the right, still shouting orders, still slipping on shattered boulders and broken arrow shafts, with his throat so ragged he felt like he was breathing glass.

The distraction party slewed right. There was a sound like the north wind, and then a searing heat that whipped across Thranduil's already scalded back and knocked him to the ground in a rush of air. The tongue of flame missed him by a meter, but it swallowed three of the guards in a crackle of fat.

They were straggling to their feet, his hand around her shoulder, when the dragon made its second move. Thranduil had betted on it not being able to summon a second burst of flame so quickly after the first. He hadn't allowed for it bringing its tail round like a whip and sweeping them off their feet. His head hit the ground with a crack; his arm lost her shoulder as he rolled and coughed, head spinning. The air had been carved from his lungs. Everything blurred.

"My Lord!"

Blood trickled down the back of Thranduil's throat; he had bitten his tongue. His ears were ringing.

"My Lord!"

Someone grabbed his collar and hauled him inelegantly upright. They were in the process of slinging his arm over their shoulder, intending to carry him, when Thranduil snapped out of it, blinking.

"I'm fine," he murmured, pushing them off; he would not slow them down. "Go, go."

"You with us, my Lord."

Thranduil grunted, throat wet with blood. He turned to find her, saw her get to her feet, and nodded. She nodded back. The next wave of fire ripped over his head as he began to run again. The caves were very far away. But they were getting there, slowly, with soldiers falling left and right and with his armour buckled and ripped at the shoulder, cutting into the skin, with her only two steps behind him, panting through the smoke, they were making it.

He reached the cave with a gasp of relief that made his scorched lungs ache. The soldiers were shouting to him, asking for instructions, but for the first time in his life he ignored them, whipping around and searching for her in the destruction. His heart shivered; she had been behind him a moment ago, he was sure.

The haze drifted for a moment as he hovered at the edge of the cave, brushing off arms and screaming for quiet. The dragon did not keep quiet; she would not be able to hear him, even as he called her name.

Thranduil took a cautious step forward, tongue twisted with anxiety. She could not be dead. She had been right behind him. She had…

"Thranduil!"

She was limping, one of her cheeks cut by falling stone and her left side burned until he could see the raw flesh, but she was alive. Thranduil felt relief gush through his chest. The dragon's eyes appeared in the fog as he reached for her, but the caves were safe, and she was going to make it. His hand touched hers as her leg hit rubble and gave way. She stumbled backwards. His fingers seized the front of her tunic, slipped, and found the locket. He had her. He would pull her into the cave, and the dragon could not harm her.

It was so certain in his head; he had not had time to contemplate any other outcome.

At first, there was only their ragged breathing, and the dragon's eyes. Then there was a soft clink as one of the links of the golden chain snapped. Thranduil stumbled forwards as she fell back, dragging him out of the cave, into the open. He snatched for her belt, missed, and prepared to duck and catch her.

The bolt of fire came so quickly that she had no time to scream. It swallowed her in an instant; made his eyes water as he whipped his head to the right without knowing he'd done it. Flames licked his face and carried on, through his hair and skin and the sinew of his cheeks until he felt it against his tongue. The pain was so exquisite, it passed beyond the realm of his comprehension; the chain of the locket dug into his palm as he gripped and gripped and tried to understand, tried to breathe. His hair smoked around his ears. Something was wrong with his eyes; he could see nothing, hear nothing. Someone grabbed his arm and pulled him backwards, into something cool and gravelly. He let them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know there are a lot of theories as to how Thranduil's wife died, and how he got his scars, but I personally like the idea of the two events being tied together.
> 
> Thanks for reading, feedback welcome!
> 
> To be continued.


	7. Waiting Game

The green and blue banners fluttered overhead as Tauriel and Bard made their way toward the Mountain at the head of a select group of men and elves. The breeze soothed Tauriel's tired eyes, and made her think that, perhaps, Thorin would see sense. There were some dozen dwarves, and Kili, of all of them, had not been unreasonable. If he was well, perhaps he could talk his king around.

Her heart didn't believe it. She had tried already to talk one king around, and failed. If she could not put sense into her own ruler, how was she to do it to another, and a dwarf at that?

Thorin's voice rang across the river like an axe against the grindstone. "Who are you that come to Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King under the Mountain?"

They had agreed that Bard would be the one to talk; Thorin had been detained as prisoner by the elves, but shown hospitality by the men of the Lake. If he was to listen to anyone, it would be Bard or the Master, and the Master was not here.

Bard came forward, laying his bow at his feet. "We want only to discuss terms."

A grunt. Tauriel shivered with irritation. Thorin had no mind for manners, it was clear.

"What are these terms?"

"Our people have suffered." Bard was standing very tall, with his hands and knees tense. Tauriel had no doubt that he could reach his bow at a moment's notice, even if it was at his feet. "Laketown is razed to ashes. More would have been lost, if the dragon had not been slayed, and by my hand." He paused, and swallowed. "Laketown aided you when you asked for it, and you have, even without intent, brought only disaster, as I was sure you would."

There was a pause from the fortifications. Tauriel raised on her heels, holding her breath, praying that this would be over with quickly, that Thorin would grant them parley and be done.

"This treasure is of my people; you, Bard, have no rightful claim to it, and your elf-friends even less so. The price of the armour and food we received in Laketown will be repaid, when I say so. But you will have nothing whilst you continue to act like thieves."

"Thieves!" Tauriel burst out, and wished she had not; but there was no taking it back. She pushed on. "We are not thieves! We come here to ask a fair price for what Laketown has lost."

"What interest have you in the Lake?" Thorin snarled. Tauriel could see the top of his head above the battlements; his back was straight, his eyes proud and half-mad. Her heart sunk to the bottom of her stomach and wriggled uncomfortably. "Do not let them fool you Bard; they would trick you as soon as look at you. Never trust an elf."

Bard stared resolutely ahead. Tauriel forced herself to remain silent, biting her lip until it bled.

Thorin had not finished. "Break the foolish alliance you seem to have with these elves, and perhaps we can talk."

"The elves came to us when we needed help most," Bard shot back. He had gathered his bow. "I will not abandon them for your greed, Thorin Oakenshield!" At the last moment, Bard whipped around, throwing his hand toward the mountain. "You will regret this! I will give you time to regret it!"

There was a whistle and a hiss, and an arrow stuck into the ground, an inch from Bard's foot. Tauriel had a hand on her bow instantly; there was the creaking of strings behind her as the party readied itself, but no more arrows came.

Bard was bristling with rage. "If you will not listen to simple reason, I declare this Mountain besieged until you come to your senses. You can rot with your gold for all we care."

Tauriel touched his arm. Bard shook her off, looked like would carry on shouting, and then seemed to think better of it. He spat on the ground, and turned back. "Damn Thorin," he muttered. "Damn him and all his kin and their…their  _pride_."

Tauriel sighed, sucking air into her mouth until it stretched her jaw to the limit. "You should have sent us back. Perhaps you would have got what you needed out of him then."

Bard shook his head. "You do not believe that."

"No." The grass waved underneath their feet as they drew closer to the camp. "But it might have been worth a try."

"You lost your prince and your king because of him and his company. I will not have you go uncompensated any more than I would let Laketown."

Tauriel laughed, but it was hollow and left her breathless and heavy. "Believe me, if I thought Thorin had anything but gold-sickness in his heart, I would tell him exactly what he has cost us."

"You should have. It might have brought him out of it."

"Nothing can bring him out of it." Tauriel's tone sank deeper into bitterness as she thought of Kili. She was not sorry she had saved him, but she was sorry it had been for this. "The dragon has sat on that treasure for years; the longer they are locked up with it, the harder it will be for them to give it up."

"What can we do?"

"Surround them until they have to leave. There are thirteen dwarves in that Mountain; not all of them can be so foolish as to hold onto it. They will fall apart from the inside, if we are lucky."

"And if we are not?"

Tauriel thought of Legolas; the expression on his face the moment the fire had touched him, and of Thranduil, white with grief and keening like his heart would bleed through his ribs. Her face pinched, skin tautening as her stomach clenched.

"Then they will starve, and we will have what we want after all."

 

* * *

 

It had taken Thranduil what felt like years to wake, and longer to understand he was not blind; that his face had merely been wrapped in wet cloths that were changed, bloody and with dead skin sticking to them, every couple of hours. When he realised this, he decided to speak the next time someone came to bathe his burning skin, but the first time he found he could not move his jaw, and the next he was asleep and after that…after that…

He was hazy and confused and heavy, and he did not know which way was up or if he was dead, and there was a lot of shouting around him about fever and water and quiet and by the time he pulled himself out of sleep, sticky with sweat and blood, he found the bandages had been removed.

Thranduil sat up, hair falling in his face. He pried his eyes open, coughed, and tried again. His lips were cracked; when he tried to speak, he split the skin. Blood trickled down his chin as he battled with his eyes, trying to open them, trying…

He could only get one of them to obey him. Thranduil frowned, and brought a hand to his face, moving it slowly from right to left, where it winked into blackness. He did it again. And again. The eye was open – he could feel the lashes – but he couldn't see a thing out of it.

Something in his chest dropped. For a moment, he had to remind himself, breathing heavily, that he could still see, he still had the one eye, it was not over, perhaps it could be fixed, perhaps it was only a temporary, healing, measure.

And then he remembered the dragon; turning his head to the side as fire held his face in a vice grip. He looked down at his hand and saw, burned into the skin, a line of circles, like chain links. The wound was shiny and raw, and it hurt when he pushed his fingernails into it. His memory was foggy. He could not remember why it was so important.

"Thranduil."

His shoulder was throbbing. The entire left side of his face was numb, his lips still bleeding down his chin and pattering blood onto the bed sheets.

"Thranduil, look at me, please."

Thranduil raised his head. Elrond looked very tired, and very sad, as he came to sit on the end of the bed, reaching a hand to Thranduil's shoulder, the one that had not been cut by his buckled armour.

"Are you lucid?"

Thranduil frowned, and nodded.

"Tell me your name."

"Th…" Thranduil faltered, gasping as his lips split and split until he thought there would be nothing left of them, but Elrond would not relent; he would wait for his answer. "Thranduil, son of Oropher."

"Good. Where are you?"

The effort of sitting up was beginning to sap Thranduil's strength, his hand slipping on the sheets as he struggled to keep upright. "I don't…I am not…"

Elrond's hand came to his forehead and pressed against it. Thranduil flinched.

"The fever seems to be gone," Elrond murmured, frowning. "Can you tell me where you are? Where you last remember being?"

"By the caves." Thranduil's body shuddered as his arm gave way and he crashed back onto the bed. The jolting shifted something in his chest and he began to cough; he could still taste smoke. Elrond touched his chest, and something cool passed over Thranduil's head and upper-body. The coughing eased. "By the caves, in the North. We were…coming to help you."

Elrond looked down. Thranduil felt his skin prickle.

"What?"

Elrond shook his head. "Nothing. Rest."

"There is something." Thranduil struggled to sit up again, shuddered, and would have fallen if Elrond had not snatched an arm around his back, supporting him. "Please – where is she? Was she hurt?"

"You do not remember?"

"I…I…is she hurt?"

Elrond looked down again. And Thranduil knew. He did not need to ask again, even though he could not yet remember the moment. The burns on his hand were a chain, her chain. He must have reached for her. Of course he had. He loved her.

Had loved her. Did it become the past tense now she was gone?

"Thranduil?"

Elrond was shaking his shoulder, shouting getting louder and louder until it began to hurt his ears, but Thranduil could not move, could not comprehend. He could feel his eye glazing over as he stared at the ceiling and tried to understand what his heart was doing inside his chest, going slower and slower; he could feel it stretching, beginning to pull apart.

It would be so easy to let it. He could see it now, her stumble backwards, his utter conviction that all would be well. He could feel his skin greying as his heart began to break, like the links of her chain snapping in his hand.

He wondered where the locket was now, and if the picture inside it had burned away. When he closed his eyes he saw it, the watercolours reaching towards the gold rim, Legolas with his arms outstretched, always reaching, always…

Legolas.

Everything was very cold. Thranduil felt as if there was frost settling on the insides of his lungs. It would be easy. It was easy.

Apart from Legolas.

Elrond was still shaking him; he could feel it. But there was nothing Elrond could do. There was nothing, he told himself. Nothing existed. There was only Legolas, and Thranduil had to sleep, and wait for him in the brightness and the dark, until he came.

 

* * *

 

Tauriel was dozing when one of the watchmen came to her tent and roused her. She sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes; she had had precious little sleep the past few days. Worry assaulted her even before she'd got to her feet. There was too much to worry about – the cold weather was coming on fast and soon they would have to seriously reconsider waiting Thorin out through the winter. Already, their supplies were running thin. She had sent back to Greenwood for more, but they might not come for a week. The affairs of the forest had been left in the hands of Thranduil's councillors, and they were not famed for quick decisions.

Damn Thorin, and damn Thranduil into the bargain. She wondered if either of them knew how much trouble they were causing her.

"What is it?" she murmured, pulling on her boots.

"One of Thorin's company has come from the Mountain, and demands to speak with the leaders of the siege party." The watchman respectfully inclined his head as Tauriel pulled her tunic on over her vest. "He says he has something of use to us, but that he has only an hour or two before he must return."

Tauriel's mind flew instantly to Kili as she slipped her knives into their sheaths. Perhaps he had seen sense. "Who is this dwarf? What is his name?"

"It is not a dwarf." The watchman was already leading her out of the tent. "It is a hobbit."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously I'm straying very much into book territory here; I hope no-one minds too much that I tried to keep it true (ish) to the original story.
> 
> Thanks for reading, feedback welcome!
> 
> To be continued.


	8. Reaching Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Some gore.

It was, indeed, a hobbit that Tauriel found in Bard's tent, wrapped in a blanket and with his curly hair in disarray, but smiling good-naturedly, if nervously. Bard was sitting on the bed, looking grim. Tauriel remained standing, wondering how she had possibly missed the fact there was a hobbit alongside Thorin's company before now, and deciding he was very likely the reason for the Thorin's miraculous escape from the dungeons.

"Personally," the hobbit was saying, "I am willing to admit that damage has been done to your town, and you deserve your fair claim. But Thorin is not of the same mind; he would rather starve than share his treasure, especially with elves." With this, the hobbit shot an apologetic look in Tauriel's direction. "Not that I am of his views. Although, I had rather hoped to see your king, and discuss the matter with him."

Tauriel bristled. "Our king is not here. He has affairs to attend to, and cannot waste his time with such matters that concern Thorin and his party."

She knew at once she had spoken too strongly. The hobbit tipped his chin defiantly.

"Well, if that's how you feel about it I might as well take myself back to the Mountain without trying to bring an end to this accursed squabbling."

"My apologies," Tauriel said hastily, putting a hand to her head and stroking a finger over the corner of her eye, where the dust of sleep was still gathered. "These past days have been…difficult. Please, forgive me."

The hobbit smiled jovially; he really was a merry creature, for one in such a situation, Tauriel thought. His optimism seemed to infect the room; even in the dim light and the cold, it suddenly seemed there may be hope for them all. "Of course. Now, I am sure you must want to get this siege done with as soon as possible. You have heard of Dáin and the dwarves of the Iron Hills?"

Tauriel nodded; she had not met them personally – the thought of what Thranduil would do to that many dwarves within his walls made her cringe – but the Iron Hills were not far off, and as Captain of the Guard it was her duty to know exactly who was where, and what they might be planning.

"We have heard of him," said Bard, sitting forward on the bed with his hands over his knees. "But what has it to do with us?"

"He is no more than two day's march from here, with his army behind him; when he arrives, you can guarantee there will be trouble."

"Are you threatening us?" Bard growled, getting to his feet. "Has Thorin sent you here simply to goad us?"

"Bard," Tauriel murmured, holding out a hand to keep Bard back. "Thorin would not send us warning. The hobbit is here to help us."

"Mr Baggins, please, Miss Tauriel," said Mr Baggins, looking uncomfortably at Bard, who reluctantly sat back down. Tauriel had no time to wonder how the hobbit knew her name before he hurried on. "I have an offer to make you."

And with that, Mr Baggins pulled the Arkenstone from beneath his cloak.

Even if Tauriel had never seen it for herself before she knew what it was, and what Mr Baggins had risked to take it from under Thorin's nose. It was his right to rule, his heart and soul, and it was sitting in Bard's tent, wrapped in dirty rags and shining like a moon, fit to burst with light.

Bard breathed out a long sigh, half a curse, half a hiss of admiration. A chill seemed to go through the room as Mr Baggins sat forward, pulling his cloak back around his shoulders.

"I am giving this to you," the hobbit said softly. "It is the only thing Thorin values above the rest of the treasure. If you have it, he will be forced to listen to your demands."

"He will not like it," Tauriel murmured, unable to take her eyes of the stone. It was mesmerising; as if the room were spinning, and the gem were the only fixed point. "I very much doubt he has given this to you."

Mr Baggins flushed. "Well. No. Not exactly. But as part of the company, I am entitled to a fourteenth share of the treasure and…well, I can't enjoy it if I'm starving to death." He shifted uncomfortably. "I should really be getting back."

"You should stay here," Bard said. He, too, did not seem to be able to look away from the Arkenstone. "You would be highly rewarded for this, and you would be safe from Thorin's wrath."

"Yes," Tauriel dreaded to think of what Thorin would do to the hobbit when he found out what he'd done. "You must tell us how you came to be amongst Thorin's company. I did not see you when the rest were…detained in the Woodland Realm." It was not a threat – she was merely curious – but the hobbit did not seem to realise the fact. He got to his feet hastily.

"Be that as it may, I must go. They are my friends, and we have been through a lot together; and I promised I would wake the next watcher at midnight."

Nothing they said would make him stay, and Mr Baggins took off into the darkness without looking back. Tauriel took advantage of his vacated seat and fell into it with a sigh.

"You should not have mentioned Mirkwood," Bard said, running a hand through his hair. "You scared him off."

Tauriel felt like reiterating for what felt like the hundredth time that Greenwood was the forest's name, but she was too tired. "I simply curious as to where he came from; if there are weaknesses in our fortifications, it would be well we knew about them."

"Now is not the time."

"There is more to my duties than this Mountain."

Bard sniffed. "I am sure you will be able to return to your precious home soon enough."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

Bard got to his feet and went to the Arkenstone, sweeping it into his arms. "With this, it will soon be over, and you can go. I would not want to keep you here against your wishes."

Tauriel realised she was also on her feet – she had the overwhelming urge to snatch the gem off Bard, although she was not entirely sure why. Her hand trembled, but she steadied it. "It is that cursed jewel."

"What?" Bard turned to look at her. The light was shining through the folds of his clothes.

"It is a dangerous thing; it makes everyone fight over trivial things, and forget the greater good."

For a moment, Bard looked uncertain. Then he nodded, and placed the stone on the bed, roughly, as if it had burned him. "We cannot afford to quarrel."

"No. We cannot." Tauriel was about to find her seat again when there was a commotion outside the tent. She and Bard whipped round in time to see the flaps part and someone enter, pushing the guards away as if with an invisible force.

Tauriel reached for her knife and held it, poised to throw. "Who are you?"

The figure stopped, threw back his grey hood and raised his head; Tauriel let out a soft sigh of relief, and lowered her knife.

It was Gandalf.

 

* * *

 

The figures found Thranduil in the darkness, and they held him until his skin burned and hissed and turned to steam around his ears. He breathed it in. His chest racked with what might have been sobs or screams; he no longer knew.

He asked the figures who they were, but they only laughed. He asked them what they wanted, but they only bit chunks out of him which grew back and were bitten and grew back. They tied him to walls with nothing but the power of their voices and tore out his heart and liver, sniffed them and put them back. They poked him. They taunted. And their voices were his own, magnified, distorted and cruel.

 _You let her die_.

_If you had looked behind sooner, she would have lived._

_You wanted her to die._

"I didn't!" Thranduil burst out, panting. Blood trickled from his stomach. He could feel his exposed guts shifting when he tried to breathe.

The voices chittered and giggled for a moment, and then launched a new attack. Every one sounded different, and all were equally terrible.

_You let yourself get hurt. Have thought about your face? There'll be nothing of it left. You're blind. What sort of king is blind?_

_You can never love Legolas enough. He'll never love you like he loved her._

_You should have died instead. It would have been better._

Thranduil hung his head and listened. He no longer had the strength to believe what they were telling him wasn't true.

He didn't know how long he lay in the dark, naked and bleeding, listening. He had lost his way, and he had lost himself; the only things he remembered were the things the voices told him he had done, and he had no choice but to believe them.

_You will never live up to your father. He died defending his people. You'll die here. No-one will remember you. They've already replaced you._

_You killed her._

_You will always make the wrong decisions._

"Ada!"

_You will hurt others._

_You will hurt your son._

"Ada!"

Thranduil shifted, looking around in the darkness, as if it would do him any good. "Legolas?" His voice didn't echo; there were no boundaries for it to echo off. As soon as he dared speak the voices surged forward, and for a moment his resolve wavered, but then Legolas's voice came again.

"Ada, wake up. You've been asleep ages…"

Thranduil felt something ghost over his chest, as if someone, someone small and light, had settled across it. The voices were fading now, shrinking into the background.

"Wake up." A beat. Thranduil held his breath, straining to hear. "Do you want me to take these off? You can't see how light it is with them on. When it's light, it's time to wake up." Another pause. "You don't want me to take them off?"

Someone was shaking his shoulder.

"Say something, Ada. Wake up. Wake up, wake up, wake up!"

And then the screaming started. Legolas was crying. He was scared. Thranduil was being shaken so violently he could feel two versions of his body, one swaying left to right and one suspended in the darkness, frozen with terror.

There was silence. The ghostly weight that had been seated on his chest was snatched away. Thranduil panicked, tearing at his invisible ropes, flopping to the floor, still bleeding, with the voices encroaching again, but he couldn't pay attention to them; suddenly, he remembered who he was and where he was. Without knowing he was doing it, he sat forward, groping for his face and ripping the bandages from around his eyes. The darkness exploded and shifted into the form of his chambers, into the figure of Elrond with Legolas clutched in his arms; Legolas was screaming and kicking, but Elrond held him firmly as healers swarmed Thranduil's bed.

Thranduil pushed them away, staggered to his feet, stumbled – when had his muscles become so weak? – and reached for Elrond, who whipped around. Everything was confusion and bright light. Legolas took a look at Thranduil's face at the same moment Thranduil caught a glimpse of the raw sinew and burned veins in the mirror. Legolas's lip trembled, and he pulled back, into Elrond's arms, sobbing.

Thranduil didn't realise he'd created the illusion until he saw it settle into place. His skin became smooth. One of the healers caught hold of his tunic and practically forced him back into the bed, just as his legs gave out. He was breathing heavily, exhausted already. Before he could start to writhe and panic, Elrond had stepped forward and placed Legolas on his chest. And Thranduil forgot everything, forgot his terror, forgot the healers watching, and put his arms around him.

"There, there. Hush, Legolas, it will all be well."

Legolas sniffed, and sneaked a peak at Thranduil's face. He blinked, then crawled up Thranduil's chest – Thranduil worked hard not to wince as his damaged shoulder twinged – and rested his head against Thranduil's neck.

"Ada…I…I…Naneth…"

"It will be well."

"But…"

"It will all be well."

 

* * *

 

Gandalf would tell them very little of how he came to be at the foot of the Mountain, or how he knew to come, or why he had blood on his clothes and long scratches across his hands and face. He said only that the time for such discussion was not now.

He did, on the other hand, have many good suggestions for the use of the Arkenstone, and seemed willing to aid Bard and his people against Thorin. He said almost nothing to Tauriel until their plans had been laid for the next day and they had left Bard to his sleep. Gandalf took the Arkenstone with him, and Bard seemed both happy and reluctant to have it out of his sight.

The night air was harsh and windy, and Tauriel found herself wishing for the shelter of the Greenwood trees. She was not badly affected by the cold, but that did not mean she liked it. It was exposed, beneath the Mountain. Exposed and unforgiving.

"I couldn't help but notice," Gandalf said gruffly, "that you are not Thranduil."

Tauriel twitched irritably. "Your eyes are keen, Master Gandalf," she replied icily. "No-one seems yet to have noticed."

Gandalf chuckled. "Forgive me, Mistress Tauriel. I was merely looking for a way to broach the subject."

"The king's business is his own, and it is not my place to share it." She should not have told even Bard, she realised now, even though he knew what had become of Legolas. Still, he was a man, and he did not understand what she had meant when she told him of Thranduil's grief. Gandalf was a wizard, and one who had spent time in the company of her kind; he would understand instantly, and she did not dare let anyone know how exposed Greenwood was. It would be inviting trouble.

"Then I shall merely ask you if there is anything I can do to help."

Tauriel thought for a moment, her heart sitting heavily in her chest, like soggy bread. She thought of how the ravens had only brought one message since she had left, and it had simply read  _no change_. She thought of the healers, and what they had said about the last time this had happened. Of how even Elrond had not been able to do anything.

She shook her head. "I am afraid not."

Gandalf nodded. "Very well. Then I shall see you tomorrow, and we shall confront Thorin and his foolish company."

Tauriel's mouth twitched. "They are not  _all_ foolish. Mr Baggins certainly has some sense about him."

"Of course he has," Gandalf replied, leaning on his staff. "That was why I chose him to accompany them."

Tauriel's mind stuttered for a moment, and by the time she had brought a coherent question to her lips, Gandalf was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that the plot's moving quickly enough for people; I keep trying to balance the more eventful situation at Tauriel's end without leaving Thranduil out of it completely.
> 
> Thanks for reading, feedback welcome!
> 
> To be continued.


	9. War Talk

Legolas had fallen asleep on Thranduil's chest, exhausted by his screaming fit, his fat cheeks flushed and his thumb in his mouth. Thranduil sat, just as exhausted, with his back against the wall and his head tipped forward because he didn't have enough strength to hold it upright.

"You have given him a great amount of worry," Elrond said, resting his chin on his hand as he lowered himself into a chair beside the bed. "He needs you. He doesn't understand why his mother left."

Thranduil blinked. His face had reverted back to its burns; he was still getting used to the feel of the air on parts of his cheek that should never have seen daylight. "I know." His voice was distorted and strange. He would have to learn to move his mouth differently. He would have to learn to navigate with one eye. He would have to learn to live without her. "I got lost, somewhere inside my head." Thranduil felt tears gather at the back of his throat, but he was too tired to shed them. "I am sorry, if I have caused you trouble."

Elrond looked like he might laugh, but he didn't. "Trouble might be putting it too lightly. I have been at your side for weeks, Thranduil. You have not moved, you have not eaten. What you did – I have not often seen it done."

"I had to." Thranduil pressed a hand to his forehead. Legolas shifted on his chest and murmured something incoherent. "I couldn't leave him. I could  _feel_ myself slipping." The hand trembled. He had been terrified, he realised. Terrified beyond belief at how close he had come to leaving Legolas behind.

"I am not saying you were wrong." Elrond smiled. "If not for Legolas, for your people. They will need you, I am sure, when times grow dark."

"The dragons?"

"Still have the North. I could not order an attack whilst I hid in Greenwood tending to you."

"I am sorry."

"Do not be. I am sure we will rout them out soon."

Legolas stirred again. Thranduil lowered his hand and put it to his son's back, holding him steady so he did not slide off and fall. Even such a small movement was draining. "I am so tired."

"It was no light thing you did. I would advise you not to try doing it again."

"I hope I never have to."

Elrond's mouth pressed into a thin line as he got to his feet. "As do I. There is no cure for it. You could easily be trapped in sleep forever."

Thranduil nodded, and put his arms around Legolas, protectively. He would not do it again. He would not need to; she was dead, and he would mourn her for the rest of his life, but the initial stretching and breaking was passed. For Legolas, and for his people, he would endure.

Elrond was halfway to the door when he turned around as if to say something, but Thranduil missed it in the sudden rush of wind that passed around the room. He frowned, confused, and sat forward, shifting his arm so Legolas would be held steady in its crook, only to find Legolas was not there. He jerked his head down in panic, throat flexing as he saw nothing. He threw himself out of the bed, wondering if there was some way Legolas could have crawled off without his noticing, but there was nothing, nothing under the bed, or by the walls. He ran in circles, calling for his son, calling for Elrond, and no-one answered.

The room sucked itself inward at the corners, folding up and trapping him inside. The darkness flooded in.

 

* * *

 

Thorin had yielded as soon as he had seen the stone; Gandalf, wrapped in his cloak, had carried it to the foot of the mountain in a cask, with Bard a step behind. Tauriel had hovered a little way back, but did not make an effort to disguise herself. She had known that Thorin would not be able to resist the jewel of his house, even if part of the company offering it to him were elves.

She wished Mr Baggins had not been so foolish as to give himself away as the thief when Thorin had demanded where they got the stone; for a moment, she had been sure Thorin would dash him against the rocks. If it hadn't been for Gandalf, he would have. As it was, Mr Baggins had joined them at the foot of the Mountain in disgrace of his company, and Thorin had offered up the hobbit's share of the treasure in return for the Arkenstone.

One fourteenth, in gold and silver. Tauriel could not even begin to imagine the amount. More than enough for the people to rebuild their homes. More than enough to ensure the soldiers she had brought with her were well-paid and well-fed. The people of Laketown would not starve this winter. She allowed herself a sigh of relief that was lost in the rising wind. Already, her troops were getting ready to return to Greenwood; Bard had promised Thorin that they would depart when the treasure was delivered, and no-one had any doubt Thorin would yield.

Unless Dáin reached the Mountain before they could claim the treasure. Unless Thorin's madness was worse than she anticipated. Unless the dwarves had something planned.

Tauriel could not bring herself to start packing up her things. There would be trouble; she could smell it.

The thought had barely crossed her mind before a runner came up to her and bowed his head. She motioned for him to straighten. "What is it?"

"Dwarves, Captain, of the Iron Hills."

Tauriel had known they were coming and yet, still dragon-weary, her heart still did not want to believe it. She was tired of war, tired of orcs and dragons and all evil things. Though the dwarves were not foul, that almost made it worse. She did not like them, but she could not immediately attack. She had to be diplomatic. With an orc, she could behead it and everyone would be happier for it.

She took in a breath. The wind smelled of grass and ash. She knew the dwarves could not be allowed to reach the Mountain; if they did, Thorin would never relinquish the fourteenth share. They must be delayed, at all cost to diplomacy. "Sound the trumpets."

The runner bowed and took off. Within a minute, the horn sounded across the camp. Within thirty, Tauriel had donned her armour, slung her bow across her back and was standing in the narrow passage that led to the Mountain, facing a company of dwarves all in chainmail and with their two-headed axes in hand.

"We are travelling toward the Mountain," one of the dwarves began, before Tauriel could summon a question to her lips. "To our kin."

That they demanded to be let through was implied without words. Tauriel looked for Bard, knowing that an elf was the last thing these dwarves, tall for their kind, and grim as winter, wanted to talk to, but it seemed he had not yet arrived. The dwarves could not be allowed through; their packs were bulging, and with reinforcements and fresh supplies, Thorin could last a siege for months. Laketown did not have that much time – she did have that much time. She did not dare leave Greenwood any longer than necessary. If these dwarves joined the others, more would arrive, and she would have to increase her forces beyond their capacity to sustain the siege.

Tauriel steeled herself and stepped forward. "You may not pass."

"Who are you, to deny us passage to our home?" This dwarf she guessed was Dáin; his armour was fine and his beard long. "This is not your place, elf."

"You may not pass," she repeated. Some of the dwarves shifted in anger, and the company of men and elves behind her stirred in response. "Please, leave here in peace."

For a moment, it looked like the axes might be drawn; hands moved to belts and scabbards. Tauriel stood firm, resisting, even though her muscles stung with the effort, the urge to reach for her bow. To do so now would be a declaration of war. She kept her hands loosely by her side, cheeks burning in the cold wind; if they decided to attack, she would be first in line. She might not get to her knives in time. The axe-heads glinted in the light as the sun shifted, throwing everything into brightness and shadow. She had never felt so vulnerable in all her life, and still she knew she must not move.

Eventually the dwarves stepped back a pace, obviously phased by her lack of confrontation. Dáin turned to his army and muttered something, then looked back at her. "You will not let us through, though it is our right?"

"It is not, and I will not."

Dáin nodded. "Then you have not heard the last of us."

The dwarves left. For a moment Tauriel stood, frozen by the thought of how close she had come to being cleaved open like a fish. One of her soldiers tapped her arm. "Captain?"

They were waiting. She turned to them, breathing through her nose and hoping she looked nothing but calm, even if her insides were still shrinking against imagined blows. "Gather the men together, prepare for the worst. Call Bard to my tent; tell him it is urgent."

Hastily, they made their way back up the path, more scared than any of them would care to admit.

 

* * *

 

"We have the advantage," Bard said, pacing Tauriel's tent as she stood and watched him, stock still, her eyes narrow. "Our archers are already hidden in the rocks; they are fools if they think their armour, even dwarven armour, can hold back arrows for long."

"But we do not want war," Tauriel bit out, hands clenching, "and if they wanted it, they would have attacked outright."

"They might have, if you had been Thranduil. They probably think he is here somewhere, and you were only his messenger."

"Be that as it may, I think we must hope they will come to terms with us. Perhaps they are less stubborn than Thorin; they have not yet had access to the dragon's gold. It has far less hold over them."

Bard stopped his pacing and gave her a long look. "Do you believe that?"

"I hope it."

"Hope will get us nowhere."

Tauriel put a hand to her head and blew out a breath. Bard was right; this war-weariness was beginning to drain her to such an extent that she forgot the nature of the world. "Then you are right. We have the advantage of position and, for now, of numbers."

"We have some breathing space, seeing as they backed away the first time." Bard stroked his chin. "As of yet, we have done nothing but deny them access to the Mountain. They may not want to fire the first arrow."

"We must make sure we do not make that mistake. If we are to get more soldiers into the rocks, we cannot give them any reason to attack before we are fully ready."

A realisation flashed somewhere in the back of her mind. Tauriel's head snapped up.

"What?" Bard asked. "What is it?"

"The Arkenstone. Once they know we have it, they will attack without question."

"Then we must make sure it is safe, and that they do not know."

"Gandalf can-"

Tauriel heard the twang of the bowstring as if it wasn't real, and her words died on her lips as Bard snapped his head up. They waited, as if to see if they had imagined it, even though Tauriel knew that they had not; two did not imagine such a thing at the same time. The second twang threw the reality back in her face. By the time the third sounded she and Bard were already out of the tent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, feedback welcome!
> 
> To be continued.


	10. Five Armies

"So much for avoiding a war," Bard growled. The camp was in uproar. Tauriel could see the dwarves approaching. Battle hovered at the edge of her vision; for a moment, everything was very still.

The lightning ripped across the sky so quickly Tauriel almost believed she had not seen it; then the thunder rolled in with a black cloud which, at first, she thought was merely rain. Her mind flashed through strategies. Could they use bad weather to their advantage? Would it obscure the vision of those already on the ledges?

Then her eyes focused, and she saw the cloud was made of bats.

Bard had realised it too, and his jaw slackened. "What does it mean?" he murmured. Even the dwarves had paused in their attack. All heads were turned toward the sky. "What is happening?"

"Halt!"

Bard jumped. Tauriel stepped forward to see Gandalf, his arms raised, standing between what had been, a moment ago, two opposing armies. His staff was shining blue and stark against the darkening sky. "It is the orcs and goblins, as sure as my beard is grey; war has come upon us even sooner than I thought. Bolg is coming."

Tauriel felt her heart shudder; the name Bolg was horribly familiar to her, but in her panic it took her a moment to remember when she'd last heard it. Of course, Legolas – one of the last things he'd said to her.

 _Bolg does not matter now_.

So it had been Bolg who had given Legolas the swollen ankle, had caused him to trip on the jetty. For a moment, she was paralysed by anger. Then Bard touched her arm and all hell broke loose beneath the Mountain.

There was no time for an official council, but they had no need of one. Dáin's troops streamed across to their side and the elves and men fell into place around them. Dáin fought his way to Bard and Tauriel, Gandalf following swiftly behind him, his staff clacking against the rocks. Tauriel realised they needed a plan; they needed a complete reversal of tactics in the time it took the orcs to reach them. Which, if the clouds of bats were anything to go by, wasn't long.

"It seems you hear the last from us in a way neither of us had anticipated, elf," Dáin growled, hefting his axe onto his shoulder as he ground to a halt in front of them. "What have we time for?"

Tauriel glanced back at the mountain, to the valley pass, the lake, and the ledges and crannies. Part of her was loathe to admit what their tactics had been, but she knew there was no time for quarrel; they would trust the dwarves, or they would die. Bard looked to her and nodded his head.

"We have troops amongst the rocks," she said, pointing upward. "If we can lure the orcs into the valley and attack them from above, we may have the advantage. We can strike from the south, and from the east."

Dáin sniffed, his dark eyes shifting from the Mountain, to the rocks, and back to her and Bard. "If they are in sufficient numbers to split their army and go around us, they will get onto the Mountain and attack us from behind as well as from in front."

"We have no other plan," Bard said. "Our archers are skilled, and they have height on the goblins. If we do not lure them to the valley under the Mountain we might as well surrender now."

"Bard is right," Gandalf said, breathing heavily as he leant on his staff. "You have precious little time; get your troops into position. I will send for help, although I fear it will arrive too late."

Tauriel let out a low hiss of frustration. "What brings goblins and orcs here at such a time?"

Gandalf, in the midst of turning to leave, paused. "They have an agenda with the mountain; Bolg and Azog with Thorin, and the rest with gold."

"Azog?" Dáin burst out. "He was slain years ago!"  
Gandalf only shook his head. "It would take more than the loss of his arm to defeat him. I would bet my hat he is coming, and he will head straight for wherever Thorin Oakenshield is."

Tauriel felt her throat grow dry. The three of them implored Gandalf to tell them more, but all he would or could say was that Azog and Bolg would not be easily defeated – information Tauriel could have worked out well enough on her own – and left them at a speed that would have shocked Tauriel for a man of his age, if she had not known he was a wizard. The rocks were vibrating with panicked murmuring, and she knew that if they did not start giving orders soon, their troops, especially the inexperienced Lakemen, would begin to desert them.

The bats were flying lower. The darkness was stifling.

Dáin turned to Bard. "I have five hundred dwarves; what are your numbers?"

"A little over two hundred men," Bard replied, turning his bowstring between his fingers. "Most are already in position.

"And two hundred elves," Tauriel added, hoping that those she had left at Laketown would be enough to protect it. "I will call a hundred down from the heights; we are the smallest number, and we will form the first line of defence. Orcs hate us most of all, and they will not hesitate to meet us; we will lure them straight into the valley."

Both Dáin and Bard looked shocked. Bard shook his head. "They will overrun you in seconds."

"We will be forced to retreat, yes," Tauriel admitted, wishing her heart wasn't pounding at such a rate. "But we will weaken the first charge, and our retreat will only draw them further into the trap."

"You cannot face them with just a hundred elves," Dáin rumbled. "If the Lakemen are inexperienced in war, I will give you two hundred of my warriors to support you."

To have such a generous offer, and from a dwarf, did a little to calm Tauriel's singing nerves; if Dáin was willing to risk so much to help her, then she was sure he was on their side. Even so, she could not accept. She shook her head.

"The orcs know of men and elves in the area, but they may not yet have heard of your coming, Dáin. Your troops would be better used on the Eastern slopes, with Bard's men. They may come as a surprise to Bolg."

Bard looked uncertain, but Dáin nodded. "That is true."

Tauriel immediately raised her arm and called down all but the sharpest shooters of her troops to the ground, whilst Bard picked out the nimblest men to take their place upon the heights. Dáin hurried his warriors to the Eastern slope, and Bard, with a quick murmur of encouragement, followed swiftly behind. Tauriel was left alone, to order her troops into a faint line that looked as flimsy as it was. That was the point, she told herself. The elves were the fastest of the three armies, and they alone would be able to pull back underneath the onslaught with few losses.

There would be losses, she realised. The realisation always came twice to her, in the first moments before a battle, and again, when she picked her way amongst the bodies afterwards. These losses would be nothing like she had seen before.

Most of the elves were stationed a little further up the valley and, on command, would charge to support the first line, the lure, which waited in the place she had not long ago met Dáin and denied him passage to the Mountain. Tauriel stood, a piece of bait amongst the line, her bow drawn and her knives ready. She reckoned she would have time to fire all the arrows in her quiver once the orcs came into sight; after that, they would be at close-quarters combat, and archery of little use to her.

"Hold!" she called, hand steady against her bow. There had been no time for a rousing talk, barely time to give her commands. She guessed a third the elves in this line would die. One of them could well be her. "Hold…"

The orcs swept into sight like a river breaking out of a dam; a sea of black and red banners, of howling wargs and howling goblins. No sign of their leader, of Bolg. Tauriel knew in that instant that she would not die on this line; she would live, she would find Bolg, and she would kill him for what he had done to Legolas.

"Hold."

The orcs had not yet seen them, but they would smell them soon enough, and they would charge.

"Hold."

One of the goblins at the front turned its head. Tauriel saw its nose twitch, the dim eyes focus. A cry went up. The sea hesitated, then turned its tide, charging without command straight towards Tauriel's line.

"Hold."

The orcs passed over the last of the open ground, and were level with the mouth of the valley. Tauriel paused, her mouth dry, waiting, waiting…

The first goblins passed into the bottleneck. Tauriel hesitated a second, ensuring they were well-packed and unable to turn around.

"Fire!"

Arrows shot forth in a blanket, felling the front line of orcs and goblins and passing into the second with no trouble. Tauriel's arm worked mechanically, franticly, loosing arrow after arrow, and still the orcs pressed forward. Every now and then one would stretch a little further out than its fellows and was hit by several arrows as the elves picked it out. But still the line advanced, and Tauriel's heartbeat grew faster and faster, her arm heavy with the blood pouring into her muscles. The elves held their ground, but their arrows were fast being eaten up, and they had done no more than tickle the furthest reaches of the enemy's troops.

That was not their job, Tauriel reminded herself. They were bait. And now was the time to reel in the line.

The orcs were less than ten feet away, streaming forward with their jagged swords raised, when Tauriel jerked herself around. "Retreat!" she shouted. "Retreat!"

The soldiers needed little encouragement. Now it was a race, a race to meet the rest of her troops, regroup, and make the first charge. Two soldiers went down under thrown axes, but the rest pounded up the slope toward the rest of the elfish troops, who had drawn swords and knives and were balancing on the tips of their toes. Tauriel could not wait to catch her breath; she spun on her heel, drew her knife, and raised an arm.

"Charge!"

Elves streamed from behind the rocks and ran to meet the orcs at the mouth where the bottleneck opened into the valley, hacking and slashing in hand-to-hand combat that made the rocks sing with the sound of metal. Tauriel's boots were wet with blood. Every time she cut down an orc, another took its place. Even with the arrows of men and elves hidden in the heights, whom the goblins had not yet noticed, they were being driven back. But she had not expected them to be able to push forward. She could see the first of the wargs barely twenty feet back, crushed and baying amongst the goblins. If they could hold where they were until they reached the wargs, and bring the wolves into the openness of the valley for the men and dwarves, they would have done their job well.

Slowly, strategically, they began to retreat. Tauriel's face was cut, her legs were bruised. An orc made at attempt to get behind her; she sliced its throat with one knife, whilst fending off its companion with her other. The companion dodged and, in a desperate attempt to prevent its axe cutting into her guts, Tauriel threw herself against the side of the stone cliffs, running a few feet up the wall. The move was dangerous, but it gave her time to spin and land with her knife levelled at the orc's nose. It stabbed home. Blood made her fingernails slippery.

They burst into the valley so suddenly she almost forgot to give her orders, but the delay did not cost them; the elves knew what they had to do, and began to scatter even before the words had left her. Thirty went left, and double that right, just as there was a mighty cry from the eastern side of the mountain, and the dwarves and men began their charge.

The orcs and goblins were caught in the open valley, although they rose to meet the attack without hesitation. The dwarves and men ploughed into the goblin ranks; Tauriel caught a glimpse of Dáin's great axe heaving enemies left and right as if he were gathering hay. Bard had formed a line with his bowmen, protected by a small row of rocks, and was firing well over the heads of the dwarves and men, scattering holes into the rear ranks of goblins that the archers in the heights only widened. Tauriel scaled a boulder and called her troops attention, sending them back into the fray to protect the Dwarves' left flank. A handful she kept behind to pick off the stranglers that made a dash for Bard's line. She had used all her arrows, so she joined this handful. The fighting was less messy, more precise and just as frantic, but she could see the orcs beginning to waver. A warg, driven half-mad by a feathering of arrows, turned on its rider and ripped him in two.

An orc broke past the dwarves and raced toward them, fangs bared. The elf in front of Tauriel spun her sword and ready to cut him down; but the blade missed the neck and, instead of slicing straight the through the jugular, went low, biting into the shoulder. The orc's arm hung, half severed and dripping, as the elf tried to wrench her sword free. Perhaps it was the uneven ground, perhaps it was just bad luck, but her grip slipped. The sword stayed put. Tauriel felt her heels spring into action as she reached for her knife, ready to intervene, because she could see already the orc was raising its axe in its undamaged arm, bringing it down.

She wasn't going to be in time. The knife snickered between her fingers as she threw it. She hadn't been able to get a clear shot at the head or chest, but there was a crunch as the blade went through the orc's other shoulder, knocking him sideways. The axe missed the soldier's head, slicing off a chunk of her hair and clanging onto her chainmail. The sword came free as Tauriel powered forward and, not daring to relinquish her other knife, kicked the orc in the leg. It went down, and the soldier's sword severed its head.

Tauriel retrieved her knife and nodded to the elf, who was breathing heavily, her face spattered with black blood. Her chainmail had buckled at the shoulder.

"Do you need to get that seen to?" Tauriel asked, spinning on her heel to check no other goblins had got past. They hadn't. Some of the orcs at the rear of the bottleneck were already beginning to stream back down and away.

"No, Captain," the soldier said, balancing her sword in her hand. It looked like they weren't going to need it; none of the goblins seemed to dare break ranks without support from the back. "I think it's nearly over."

She was right, Tauriel thought, although the concept was still hard to process; that the battle could be over so quickly. She felt relieved, and that relief made her uneasy. "Keep ready, just in case."

"Yes, C-"

The soldier jerked forward; Tauriel's face misted with blood as the sword clattered to the ground. There was an arrow sticking out of the soldier's neck. As Tauriel threw herself to the ground another one whistled over her head and struck the rocks with a clatter. She twisted on her side, staring up toward the Mountain with her heart quivering in her throat and blood dripping from her hair.

The orcs, scores and scores of them, had scaled the Mountain from behind and were already skidding down the sides, screaming curses. The numbers were so many there seemed to be no end; just pulsing dots that made Tauriel dizzy as she hauled herself to her feet, choking on the blood that wasn't her own but still insisted on running between her lips. The soles of her shoes were thick with filth.

The battle was far from over. This was barely the start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we (finally) got to the battle. I found it tricky balancing book and film here, but I hope you enjoyed it all the same.
> 
> Thanks for reading, feedback welcome!
> 
> To be continued.


	11. New Heights

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Gore.

The goblins were regrouping in the valley, and the dwarves' strength was being sorely tested. Bard and his archers had called the rest of the men and the rest of Tauriel's host to them and were forming a line against the Mountain, but it was weak, and Bard must have known it; his face, always grim, looked like thunder. The bats were sinking lower in the sky. For a moment, Tauriel hesitated. Her head was spinning – the enemy was coming from so many sides, and she had so few soldiers. Her first instinct was to assist Bard; his host was far smaller than that of the dwarves. But if the bottleneck the dwarves were holding was unstopped, they would be overwhelmed in minutes.

Tauriel looked to the dwarves, to the men, and back again. Most of her troops were already well amongst the fighting, and to call them to her now and redistribute would only cause confusion and panic. It could be mistaken for a retreat; if the men or dwarves believed she was abandoning them, they would pull back, and all would be lost.

Tauriel's boots skidded on the blood of the soldier with the arrow through her neck, but she pressed on, leaving footprints on the rocks as she made for the cliff sides and began to climb them. The orcs hadn't yet turned their attention to them, and she encountered no-one.

She was looking for Bolg. Part of her knew it was the right thing to do – let the bulk of the soldiers keep the orcs at bay whilst she looked for the leader behind the rabble. Part of her was doing it for Legolas. She would stick the orc in his ankles, and then she would behead him. Her heart felt a little steadier when she thought of it.

The sides grew steeper. Soon Tauriel was hanging by her hands on the rocks, knuckles white with the effort and her toes scrabbling for purchase. The wind was rising. The bats hadn't yet spotted her, but if they did she had no doubt they would attack and send her plummeting down. Even if she survived the fall, she'd find herself right in the middle of the orcish ranks. She twisted her head, flicking her hair out of her eyes, and quickly scanned the army below. Bolg would be surrounded by his guards; she was hoping he was easy to see.

He wasn't. Either he hadn't yet joined the fray, or he was going without the usual circle of guards.

The bats were circling lower. Tauriel reluctantly began to scramble down the rocks; staying so high up for any longer would be more than stupid. She would return to Bard and help him fight the orcs on the Mountain, and hope Bolg was amongst them instead.

There was a flash of white. Tauriel froze in position, watching as a fresh host of orcs and wargs burst into the fray, baying like wounded bears. Riding in the centre was what could only be Azog, seated upon his white warg and with is mouth open in a cry that was drowned by the wind. Tauriel almost lost her hold; he was larger than any orc she had seen before. His warg streaked through the masses of both armies and burst into the valley unhindered, charging to the Mountain.

_He will head straight for wherever Thorin Oakenshield is._

Tauriel began to slide down the wall so fast she left burns on her palms, desperate to reach Bard before Azog did and knowing all the time the task was hopeless; from her height, she couldn't even should a warning, the chances of it being heard were so impossible. And even if someone did hear, the orcs would reach her before her own side did. Her foot slipped, her elbow jerked and she dropped five feet before her knife found purchase in a crack in the rocks and she was brought to a halt with a gut-churning jerk. At the same moment, there was an almighty crash.

The rocks that barricaded the entrance to the Mountain had collapsed, not inward, but out, into the pool, which was still rippling from the force. Thorin was first over the rubble, armour glinting in the last of the light and his axe scything through goblins and orcs without discrimination. In that moment, nothing could touch him. Azog saw it, and he let out a scream of fury that made the rocks ring.

The two of them came together in a clash of steel, and Tauriel tore herself away from the scene. The encounter was too far away for her to reach; she could only hope Thorin was victorious, and Bard careful not to let himself get killed. The Lake-people would need him after this was over. If the numbers of bodies were anything to go by, there would be a lot of fatherless children by morning.

No time to think about it. Tauriel continued to make her decent, breath hot against her face as she pressed her face to the rocks and began to work her way sideways, so she could drop into her own ranks, rather than straight into the enemy.

As she shifted backward, the bend in the bottleneck came into sight, and something caught her eye. A circle. A circle of orcs with curved swords the size of young trees and, in the middle, what could only be Bolg.

Thorin had Azog. If Tauriel could get to Bolg, their chances of winning the battle would improve. But this wasn't about the battle. It was about Legolas.

Bolg was keeping a little back from his troops, well-protected, not only by his guards, but by the sheer numbers of his army which blocked any route to him. Any route except for the cliffs Tauriel was clinging to.

None but an elf could have scaled them, and none but a wood-elf could have kept their hold for so long, but Tauriel had spent her whole life in the trees, and she knew how to move through heights. It was just the same, she told herself, clawing her way across the vertical rock face, slipping every other step but always finding a hold to catch herself. She was thankful her hair and skin were both caked in dirt; even in the dim light, it was possible she could be seen. But she was lucky. The battle raged on, the horns blew, the wolves howled, men screamed, and Tauriel kept making her way through the valley, inch by agonising inch, until she was adjacent with Bolg and his guard, but still well above them.

Climbing down was easy; she moved fast, taking stock of the orc's positions as she slid down stone, grazed her heels upon landing, and began to run.

If she'd been Thranduil Bolg would have recognised her – she had seen the king's armour, and it was far from discreet – but she was a simple soldier, a silven elf in plain clothes, and that made him careless. The guards saw her coming and looked at each other in surprise, and then amusement, to see a single elf charging a host of orcs. One or two seemed to laugh, although they didn't lower their weapons for an instant. They expected her to go straight for their leader. And she would. But not yet.

From the heights, she had seen someone else; someone approaching at a loping speed that was so silent the orcs had not heard it coming. All their attention was fixed on Tauriel. They expected to cut her to pieces. They did not expect to be set on from behind by a giant black bear, his jaws open, eyes bright, crushing two of the guards in his grip. Tauriel skidded to the left whist the orcs were distracted, brought her knives up and jumped, hammering both blades home, each in a separate guard's neck. They shuddered and began to collapse; Tauriel ripped at the knife handles, yanking one free. The other refused to come loose, so she left it, taking advantage of the height of the orcs before they fell and flinging herself forward a second time. She only needed one knife to kill Bolg, and it would have slammed into the back of his neck, just as it had the guards, if he hadn't happened to turn at the last moment. Beorn – Tauriel knew it must be him, although she had never met him – was preoccupied ripping the last of the guards to pieces, and Bolg seemed to have taken the chance to flee. His movement put him at the wrong angle.

Tauriel's knife slid into his shoulder and stayed there, grinding on bone as he roared in pain, spinning around in an attempt to reach her. Tauriel dug her fingernails into his thick skin and hung on grimly. It was easier than she had expected; Bolg's armour was rough and full of spikes that were easy to hold onto, even if they did almost take her eye out.

She knew she didn't have long before Bolg was able to get a firm grip on her. She needed her knife back. There was surprisingly little blood coming from the wound – the blade was blocking it – and if she could pull it out it would have the nice advantage of increasing bloodloss. Her hand fastened round the handle, and she yanked, hard. Bolg growled as the knife shifted, slid a little, and stuck again. Tauriel was about to make a second attempt when Bolg stopped making furious attempts to reach her, and started to use his head instead.

Deep down, she had known he must be clever – anyone who had managed to injure Legolas had to be more than just lucky. But, in the heat of the moment, it had been easy to forget. It came as a great surprise to her when Bolg suddenly let himself go limp; she had no time to react before he slammed into the ground, breaking his fall on her and driving the handle of the knife into her palm as her hand hit the floor. Tauriel heard herself scream, heard it trail off into a choking wheeze as Bolg's spine ground into her chest. She had turned her head at the last moment, and the spikes on his armour had missed her eyes, but her cheek was leaking blood into the ground. Her hand wasn't bleeding, but she could feel bones shift when she tried to move her fingers. The knife handle had cracked something. Pain slid up her arm and into her neck as she tried to move, and found she couldn't.

The fact that the wet ground had been slightly churned by the panicked last struggles of Bolg's guards had probably saved her life; although Bolg had bruised and winded her, he hadn't crushed her ribs. He was already on his feet. He had his back to her. Tauriel realised that there was an awful lot of blood coming from her cheek, and more from her temple; it was running into her ears. No doubt, she looked dead. She stayed still, remembering to breathe and trying desperately not to move her chest as she did. Pain was making her vision sharp, and she could see the individual hairs around Beorn's eyes as he made a charge.

The two clashed together in a roar of gnashing teeth, steel and claw. Beorn was attempting to reach his arms around Bolg and grasp him in a fatal hug, but Bolg wasn't letting himself be drawn into it; he kept retreating, slashing at every step. Beorn's paws were leaking blood, and his tongue dripped saliva. Bolg was a skilled fighter, and unless he was distracted Beorn would come out of the encounter poorly, despite his great size.

Slowly, Tauriel raised herself onto one elbow. Neither of the fighters looked to her; Bolg thought she was dead, and Beorn clearly wasn't interested. They were focused on each other. Good. Her right hand was heavy and soft, like rotting wood, but the other was functional.

She took it at a run, cradling her right arm to her chest and raising the left, knowing that she would only have one chance, and that Beorn would not spare her if she got in the way. The grass shuddered under her feet as she skidded to a halt behind Bolg, ducked to avoid the swing of his massive arm, reached up and yanked the handle of the protruding knife down.

Even the howl of pain wasn't enough to cover the sound of crunching bone. The wound was far from fatal, but that hadn't been the point. As Tauriel skittered backwards, well out of the reach of Bolg's sword, Beorn's massive arms encircled Bolg. Bone crunched a second time. Bolg clung to life, kicking and growling and stabbing at the paws as best he could with his semi-pinned sword, but Beorn continued to crush and crush until the orc's eyes were popping out of his head and the bones of his shoulders burst through the skin.

Tauriel watched the whole thing without flinching, without feeling guilty for the savage sense of glee that was filling her from head to toe, wiping out the pain in her hand, wiping out the memory of Legolas stumbling on the jetty, of Thranduil letting the family portrait slip from between his fingers, of the soldier with the arrow through her neck. There was only Bolg, and Bolg was dying. She was not going to pretend he didn't deserve it, and look away.

Beorn let the body drop and raised on his hind legs; his body seemed to shrink and thin, bulk disappearing to be replaced with a blood-spattered, naked man with a mane of brown hair and the same, fierce eyes of the bear.

Tauriel bowed a little at the waist. As she did, what was left of Bolg came into her view; her knife had been bent by the force of Beorn's arms. She would have to get a new one. "We have not met, Beorn, but I would thank you for your service to our cause."

Beorn said nothing at first; when he spoke, his voice was thick and rich. "You enjoyed that."

Tauriel blinked, and raised her head, straightening her back and holding it straight, even though her legs were throbbing from exertion. There would be more fighting yet. She could not allow them to hurt. "Yes." There was no point in denying it. He was not questioning her. "Didn't you?"

"No." Beorn's voice rumbled in his throat and bounced off Tauriel's chest, making her ribs shake. "I hate orcs, but I do not enjoy killing. You do. Even for an elf."

"Do not pretend you do not hate them too," Tauriel said, unable to prevent her jaw clenching. The chains on Beorn's wrists kept drawing her eye, but she forced herself not to look. "I helped you."

"Do you expect my gratitude? You are a foolish elf; you have lost your knives and your hand."

Tauriel said nothing, but she straightened her spine until she felt like it might burst through the nape of her neck.

Beorn looked like he might have smiled, but his face was too sad to maintain it. "I will help you as best I can, though I do not think it will do much good. This battle is already lost."

Tauriel looked at the tides of orcs still fighting; perhaps Thorin had fared badly against Azog, or perhaps they hadn't yet realised they were leaderless, but they were showing no signs of retreat. She glanced at the rock face she had climbed across, and down at her hand. She would not be able to climb back to join the fray, and fighting through it with only one knife was worse than stupid. It would take an hour to run around the back of the Mountain, and even then she would have to find a way down in secret. She could not make it back. She would not see the end of the battle, and she was not sure she wanted to. The orcs were too many. They would lose.

Beorn was watching her; she wondered if he could see defeat creeping into her body. "Escape now. Go back to your kin, raise another army; we will need a counter-attack when this is done."

"I cannot abandon my soldiers. If we are defeated, the ravens will bring the news to Greenwood." To a council without a king, a depleted army with no leader. The bleakness of it left a sour taste in her mouth. She wondered if she should go – go and be a leader. But there was no use in it; she had bargained fiercely to be allowed to come to the Mountain, and even if she did return a coward the council would push her away. What little she could do, she would do here. "They will do what they can."

Beorn did not call her foolish a second time. He didn't need to – she knew she was living up to the word as she spoke. He only shook his head. "Follow me closely; I will cut a path through the orcs, but it will not stay open for long. Get your other knife."

Tauriel nodded, turned and walked toward the pile of bodies, searching for the orc it was buried in. As she pulled it out, a howling went up. By the time she whipped around Beorn was well into the orcs, cutting, as he'd promised a line through them. A line without her; a line that closed so quickly she had no time to get to her feet before the opening was gone. Beorn was, silently, telling her to go back. Forcing her. As she looked at the rock face, she knew she could not climb it. She could not attack the orcs from behind alone. She was trapped. Her only option was to turn back.

She waited a moment, breathing in the smell of blood and dust, and, without contemplating turning back, wondering how she could reach the front lines again.

She was still wondering when a shadow passed over her face, and the eagles swept into view.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I am very much playing with the book here, due to the fact the films introduced a number of characters who weren't in the final army, like Azog.
> 
> Thanks for reading, feedback welcome!
> 
> To be continued.


	12. Loose Ends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Gore.

Tauriel knew as soon as she saw the eagles that the goblins would retreat; they had found their advantage on the Mountain, and the eagles would fly to it with far less trouble than the men and dwarves could charge. She knew the orcs would turn and flee down the bottleneck, and they would find her. If they didn't kill her outright, they would trample her to death. She couldn't climb to safety; her hand had stopped hurting, but it was taking on a numb, uncomfortable heaviness, and she couldn't trust it to hold her up.

She began to run, away from the orcs, panting, knowing that she might only have minutes before they started after her. The earth flew beneath her heels as she burst out of the stone walls, on and on until she found a slope gentle enough for her to run up rather than climb. She doubled back on herself, scrambling up the slope and circling around and back towards the Mountain. Already, she could see the tides turning beneath her. She kept running, even though she knew that by the time she arrived it would be all over. She ran until her mouth was so dry she was resisting the urge to cough and her boots were thudding into the ground with such force it only made her more tired. She couldn't stop.

Bard was standing amongst the bodies when she found him. The bats had lifted, but they must have fought through the day, because the evening was closing in. Lanterns had been lit. Already, makeshift tents were being erected for the wounded, and the dead were being buried. Survivors walked amongst corpses, searching for anyone who might still be alive, so they could try, and probably fail, to save them. Gandalf was leaning on his staff, talking earnestly to a dwarf. Dáin, Thorin and Azog were nowhere to be seen. Beorn was already far away; she caught a glimpse of his huge bulk passing over the valley, roaring as he chased down what was left of the orcs.

When he saw her, Bard looked ready to faint, but he steadied himself, and smiled. The smile suited him, she thought, though he seemed too tired to make it a full grin. "Tauriel! We thought you were dead!"

Tauriel ground to a halt in front of him, breathing heavily. Bard motioned, and someone brought water to her, which she gulped greedily. Bard's face was cut from jaw to cheekbone; the wound had been hastily and crudely stitched. "As you can see, I am fine."

"You don't look fine."

Tauriel smirked and wiped her mouth on the back of her good hand. She was soaked in mud and blood, and her injured fingers were beginning to swell. She licked her lips, bracing herself. "What is the damage?"

Bard shook his head. "It's impossible to say in the dark. We will have to count the dead in the morning. Many of the elves and men in the heights were saved by their position, and the eagles restricted the heaviest of the losses. We are lucky Gandalf sent for them before the battle, or it would have been far worse."

"What of Dáin, and his dwarves?"

"Dáin is as good as uninjured." Bard hesitated, then leaned forward, lowering his voice. "Thorin's company has been sorely affected; the hobbit is missing, two are dead, and Thorin himself is dying. He has as much attention as we can give him, but it is unlikely he will see tomorrow evening."

Tauriel felt something in her chest drop, but it was difficult to feel it through the exhaustion. Even so, she forced herself to ask. Her lips were cracked and her throat raw, and it hurt to speak, but she had to. "Which two, beside Thorin himself?"

Bard sighed. "The dark-haired one, the archer, and his brother. Thorin was their uncle; even after he had fallen, they would not leave his side. Azog had no mercy. He would have killed more, if it had not been for Beorn. He crushed Azog like a moth, but…well, it was too late."

"I see." Tauriel did not; she supressed her imagination with every grain of self-will she had. She would not picture what had happened. Kili was dead, and there was nothing she could have done. The bodies of her soldiers were no doubt scattered around the valley. Legolas's ashes had grown cold. Kili was just another one, another name, and she could not yet allow herself to grieve. She swallowed saliva that was more like chalk, and postponed despair, because, as always, the present demanded her attention. "We will have to hunt down the remaining orcs. If they get far, we will never catch them."

"And there is Bolg to contend with; he must have slipped past us."

"Bolg is dead."

"Ah." Bard paused, but did not ask her any questions. "The goblins have no hope of regrouping then; they will not be hard to track, and the eagles have already begun the job. We will of better use here, I think."

"If you say so." Tauriel dragged her good hand across her face; as she did, her swollen fingers jolted against her belt, and a hiss escaped her lips. The swelling was only getting worse; if she wasn't careful, there could be permanent damage. She gave Bard a nod. "I must get this hand seen to; I will be with you as soon as possible to arrange what is to happen now. If Thorin dies, there will much to do."

Bard sighed. "There is no 'if' about it. I saw him myself."

"Then I will make haste. Do you have a tent of your own?"

"They are all taken with the wounded."

"In that case, I will meet you back here." There was no suggestion of either of them sleeping yet; the battle had been won, but they still had a second war to avoid with the dwarves, and the Master would not remain idle in Laketown once he heard of what had happened. Tauriel hoped fervently that the goblins had not attacked the Lake-people on their way here, but there would be no opportunity to receive or send a message until daylight. "Find us somewhere private; we must counsel with Dáin as soon as possible."

 

* * *

 

Thranduil had been hanging upside-down for hours; the blood was running to his head and pooling at the bottom of his skull, making his thoughts heavy and dull. The voices had been taunting him so long, he could no longer understand them.

He was very tired. He could feel his heart beating slowly in his chest, slower and slower, like a funeral song.

The voices wanted to break him, and he was sure they had achieved it.

His fingertips brushed a floor he could not see as he swayed back and forth, back and forth, the blood still running to his head. He had been here hours.

One of the voices reached out a hand made of burning gold and slipped a long fingernail through his neck, a little behind the windpipe, pushing slowly, agonisingly; Thranduil caught sight of the point coming out the other side. The blood that had been running to his head for hours began to leak down his neck, sliding over his chin until his face was drenched and his nostrils clogged until he thought he might drown, only he didn't think he'd been breathing in the first place.

The hand ripped forward, popping out his windpipe. Thranduil caught a glimpse of it – a pink, ugly, fleshy thing – and then it dropped to the floor. He didn't react. The golden hand wiggled, as if daring him to speak or scream, but he didn't. They could not kill him, because he was convinced that he was already dead.

This was death, and he had accepted it.

 

* * *

 

Bard and Dáin had settled themselves an alcove in the rocks when Tauriel found them, her hand bound tightly and her arm in a sling. She had been told the wound would heal, and that she could handle a bow in a few weeks, but that she must be careful not to damage it any further.

She was not planning to. They could not afford another battle; Dáin would soon be the rightful heir to the Mountain and she was not going to deny him his place. She would bargain for the Lake-people, but if she failed, then she would not stay longer in this place than she had to. Greenwood alone would have to help supply the new town. It would hit them hard, but she would not forsake them, not after losing so much.

The daylight was still far from them, and a lantern had been placed on a boulder nearby. There was hard cheese and bread, and a little wine laid out, but she did not take any. "Hail Dáin, son of Nàin," she said, bowing, but not too low, before settling herself on a rock. "I would thank you on behalf of my soldiers for your aid against the orcs."

"And I you, Tauriel," Dáin replied, dipping his head. "Your kin formed our first line of defence, at great personal risk."

Tauriel made an effort not to look surprised; she had not expected such gracious words. The knot that had been tightening around her stomach seemed to loosen, and she reached for a piece of bread.

Bard leaned forward, clasping his hands over his knees. "Dáin, I must be frank; Thorin is dying, and you are the heir to the Mountain. Both Tauriel and myself would ask, without malice, what you and your soldiers plan to do."

Dáin's eyes narrowed a little, but his voice was smooth and calm. "I will take my place on the throne, and I will rule Erebor to the best of my ability, Master Bard."

"As is your right," Tauriel said, hastily. It was Dáin's turn to supress surprise, and she pressed on. "Too much has happened for us to squabble like children. I, too, will be frank – I have pressing matters at the forest, but I will not leave until I know whether you plan to help the people of Laketown for all they have suffered."

Dáin put a hand to his beard, and nodded. "I understand that my cousin promised one-fourteenth of the treasure in return for the Arkenstone."

Bard flushed. "He did."

"Then I will uphold his agreement, provided the gem is returned to us. I would have it adorn his tomb; I think it will cause little harm there."

"Thank you, Master Dáin," Bard murmured. "That arrangement is agreeable."

Dáin got roughly to his feet, though Tauriel could still detect no anger around him. "If you will excuse me, my place is by Thorin's side. I will meet with Bard in the morning to oversee the exchange."

Dáin strode off. Tauriel let out a breath and slumped back against the rocks; the exchange had been quicker and less painless than she had dared to hope.

"He did not mention your being there also," Bard muttered, frowning.

Tauriel smiled. "I did not expect him to. There is much mistrust between our kinds that cannot be solved by victory over a few orcs."

"A few is putting it lightly."

Tauriel snorted, and tried not to think of all she had lost, and what she could still lose. "What will you do with the Master? You will have to be careful, or he will squander what we have fought so hard for."

Bard smirked. "The gold is promised to me in return for the Arkenstone; I will give him a share that looks impressive, and he will be gone within a week."

"Are you sure?"

"Quite sure. Now he has lost his town, he has lost control, and he will realise it sooner or later. It is only a matter of time before someone puts a knife in his back. If I can get rid of him bloodlessly, it will be a small price to pay." Bard paused. "What do you require, for your services?"

"I did not come here for gold."

"But you have fought for it."

Tauriel nodded, and tried to think. There was nothing in the Mountain of true value to her; Greenwood had no great need of treasure. There was nothing in the Mountain that could heal Thranduil's broken heart.

"There are white gems that shine like stars; they are important to my kin. If you could arrange for them to be in your fourteenth share, then I am sure Thranduil would be thankful, once he is well."

Bard looked at her sadly. "What if he does not get well?"

"He will. If his condition is unchanged, we will find a cure."

Bard looked like he believed her as much as she believed herself, but he did not tell her so. He leaned forward and took a piece of cheese. Tauriel allowed herself to relax again, sliding down the wall until her feet pressed against the boulder that held the food. Her bones ached. Her head ached. She was thirsty, but she didn't want to risk the wine; it was likely only to make her feel worse.

Bard cocked an eyebrow at her. "You know, I do not think I have ever seen an elf sit in such a slovenly manner."

"I have just fought a battle."

"Half a battle."

Tauriel could tell he was joking, so she didn't bother to do anything but roll her eyes. The laugh that escaped her wasn't her best, but Bard took it up, and for a few seconds the rocks echoed with the sound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, feedback welcome!
> 
> To be continued.


	13. Coming Home

It came as a great shock to Tauriel that Bilbo had fought in the battle, let alone come out with nothing more than a head injury. He had, he said, been saved by his helmet when a rock from above had struck him. There was a bruise blossoming on his brow that made him seem almost comical.

And yet, the hobbit was far less merry than Tauriel remembered. He was pale and drawn, greatly saddened by the loss of Thorin and anxious to return home. Laketown had suffered little damage – the orcs, seeing the destruction on the lake, must have assumed there was nothing left to attack – and Bard had thanked them many times before they left, but Tauriel still didn't feel like she'd had an honourable victory.

Gandalf rode behind their party, Beorn walked, in human form, to their left, and Tauriel led the procession on a horse that had been given to her by Bard, with her head bowed against the winter wind. The journey was long, and she could not help but notice every time she looked behind her how lessened her company was. In the end, she stopped looking behind.

Greenwood came upon them faster than she had expected; soon, she had dismounted and given the horse to Beorn, as thanks, and because she could not take it into the forest, beautiful bay creature though it was.

"You will not stay some time as our guest?" she said to Bilbo, knowing he would not accept, and glad of it; keeping the king's condition from her own people was going to be difficult enough, and Mr Baggins had a knack for being in places he should not.

Bilbo bowed his head. "Thank you, but I must return home. I hope that, should I travel this way again, your king would not refuse me his hospitality."

"I am sure he will not. You did us a great service in giving us the Arkenstone, and it will remembered." She turned to Gandalf. "You, too, are always welcome in our halls, Mithrandir."

Gandalf's eyes flashed. "But not just yet, I think."

Tauriel felt her face flicker, and she knew he had seen. "There is nothing you can do to help us. This is an elf matter, and one that cannot change."

"If you say so, then I will believe you." Gandalf reined his horse around. "I wish you luck, and recommend trickery as part of your cure, though you do not wish for my advice."

Tauriel blinked – that she and the council would be tricking the people into believing their king was whole and well was hardly a cure – but in the end, all she did was say; "safe journey."

"Safe journey."

The company split; Gandalf, Bilbo and Beorn rode at the edge of the forest, following the path north to the Grey Mountains which, now free of goblins, would be easier for horses to traverse, and Tauriel led her soldiers into the trees. The winter had set in, and there was snow on the ground. Her boots left black prints in the crisp white, until the trees grew too thick and tangled for the frost to form on the paths.

 

* * *

 

There was little or no praise to be found in the council; only endless discussion, vital but tedious, and Tauriel was doubly exhausted by the time she pried herself away from their circular rooms under the pretence of going to bathe. She had not needed any more excuse; she had not washed in days, and her hair was matted, once again smeared with dirt and blood. The pristine council had looked on her with some sympathy, at least, but they had not thanked her. Talk had turned immediately to Greenwood and Thranduil. There was no change. Already, the citizens were asking questions.

Some of the council had already suggested announcing the truth. Tauriel had argued against it, but she was tired and her speech confused; she knew they would not keep the information quiet for long. In desperation, she had suggested Elrond, and received looks that spoke volumes. It was then she had realised that Thranduil could sit and rot in his chair for months and the council would never send for outside help. It was capable of ruling Greenwood, but it was divided, and slow to make decisions; it would not hold up under attack, and it would not survive past the borders, so it had a stronger dislike of the lands outside Greenwood than even Thranduil did.

She would rather have the king she knew sitting on the throne than twelve half-strangers with no inclination to listen to reason, let alone be prepared to quash the evil she had no doubt still lurked in the corners of the forest. One army had been defeated. There would be more.

Two guards stood outside the king's chambers, talking quietly, and they broke off guiltily when she approached, hastily straightening. Tauriel waved a hand. "At ease."

The guards shifted minutely, obeying her orders to the slightest degree possible. "Captain."

"Captain."

Tauriel wondered if they knew exactly what kind of condition the king behind the doors was in as she motioned with her hand a second time. "You may leave us."

She was glad they did not question her; perhaps they had been standing there too long and were anxious for something to eat, or perhaps they did not want to argue with someone who had a bandaged hand and dried blood in their hair, but they left quickly. Tauriel pushed the door open. There were no torches lit, but she found one and brought a flint to it. The flame smelled acrid; it obviously hadn't been lit in a while.

Cobwebs were already beginning to form in the corners of the rooms – small ones, with small inhabitants. Tauriel went and swept them away, lighting torches as she went and refusing to look at the figure stooped in his chair. The table with the painting on still sat at Thranduil's elbow, but it was dusty. Gently, she picked it up and blew on it, but did not let her eyes look at what was depicted there.

Someone, probably a healer, had pulled Thranduil's hair back from his face. For the first time, Tauriel allowed herself to look closely. Thranduil's eyes were closed, with no movement behind the eyelids, his lips parted in the way of someone who was sleeping; loose, uncontrolled and cracked, they made him look dead. Tauriel had an urge to lean forward and close his jaw for him, but she did not dare.

She told him the news. She told him about the necklace. She saved Bolg until last, as if that would somehow make it more powerful, but Thranduil did not even twitch when she described how the orc's eyes had popped half out of his skull before Beorn was finished with him.

"We won," she said, eventually. "Smaug is dead, the orcs are scattered. Much has been gained." More had been lost. She did not say so. She reached forward and tapped Thranduil's cheek, not quite a slap to the face, but with a promise of more to come if her king did not get his act together and wake. "You must-"

She trailed off as something black appeared on the left side of Thranduil's face. It confused her for a moment, until it twitched, and revealed itself to be a leg. A spider no larger than her thumbnail emerged from the scar and seemed to look around, puzzled as to why its surroundings had been disturbed. Tauriel had batted it away before she realised what she was doing; it hit the floor without a sound, and a moment later the ball of her foot came down, splattering it into inkblots. It wasn't enough. She did it again and again, until it was so ground into the floor it could well never have existed.

She kept her composure all the way back to her own chambers, also dusty, also hung with spider webs she swept away with clenched teeth and a trembling hand. She didn't bother to fill the bath. She brought ink and paper from the table in the corner and marked it in shaky script, writing three copies until her left hand mastered the pen enough for it to be legible.

She'd steadied a little by the time she scrawled Elrond's name on the front of the note and called for a guard to have it sent. Once the letter had gone, her chest seemed to deflate. She had been running on adrenaline for days, weeks, and in that moment, surrounded by dead spiders and broken cobwebs, it felt like it had been for no good. Legolas was still dead. Kili had died. Once the council found out that she had written to Elrond, they would not be happy.

Tauriel sank onto her chair, leaned her head on the desk, and began to cry.

 

* * *

 

She woke the next morning and found that she had fallen asleep at her desk, and the discarded letters were stuck to her face with crusty tears and dirt. She'd expected the halls to be silent – they had been quiet since Legolas's death had been announced, and now there were only more dead to mourn – but they were not. Bustle and shouting came from behind her door, and when she went and pressed her eye to the crack she could see elves hurrying left and right, bearing everything from tablecloths to steaming bowls of stew.

It seemed the dead were not going to be simply mourned, but celebrated. The thought hit her like a bubble, forming slowly in her stomach and rising up toward her throat, exploding in a burst of happiness that left her feeling dizzy and surprised. She hadn't felt happy in weeks. Not since Legolas, and she had forgotten how long it had been.

Greenwood was not going to let itself rot. It was going to sing.

It was like being forgiven; like someone had told her that she had done the right thing. Because there was no anger, no calls for revenge, only the smell of stew and the soft chatter of the sad but victorious. Greenwood had lost much – she had lost much – but, for the first time, Tauriel realised what she had achieved, and although she did not feel happy, she felt, perhaps, just a little proud.

She fetched water for the bath and scrubbed the blood out of her hair and the dried tears from her face. She dressed in clean, fresh clothes, and threw the others, which were torn and filthy, into the corner, to be dealt with at another time. Her hand seemed to be healing – the bones were sore, but setting. The halls smelled of spices and warm wine.

The feast was good, the speeches pretty and not too sad, the wine strong, and no-one asked Tauriel for her contribution. One or two of the soldiers approached her and thanked her, but the council was not eager to hear her speak. She allowed it; she was tired, and she had no desire to make a fool of herself. She drank a little too much, ate heartily, and returned to her rooms. She slept deeply, and woke refreshed.

The hours passed into days, and the days into a week, and then another, and another. Her hand healed. Tauriel went about her duties as she once had. Leading the patrols distracted her from thinking about what the council would do to her when they found out she had asked Elrond for his help. She had not told them what she had done, because she knew they would only send a raven to cancel her request, and she was not willing to sacrifice any chance of Thranduil's recovery because they were too proud, or too protective, to allow anyone into their halls. By the time they found out, it would be too late. She could only wait and see.

She did not have to wait long – Elrond must have ridden as hard as he could for Greenwood. If he knew Thranduil's condition, that did not surprise her. What did surprise her was the knocking on her door in the middle of the night, which jerked her out of sleep and brought her, with tangled hair and puffy eyes, to the council chamber, where seven of the twelve were gathered, in various stages of dress. All of them were looking at her like she was the spider she had crushed under her heel when she first got back.

"You know why you are here."

Tauriel stood straight, resisting the urge to rub her eyes, and tipped her head a little to the side. "Perhaps you could make it clear."

"We had a message, not more than ten minutes ago, that Elrond is riding from Rivendell." The council member, tall even for an elf, plucked a slip of paper from the table. "He says that he is 'extremely sorry' to hear what has occurred and will be anxious 'to see to King Thranduil' as soon as he arrives. He mentions your name."

Any hope Tauriel had of brushing the matter off as a message from someone else – not that the story would have held up for more than a few hours – died. "I took what action I thought was best."

"You went strictly against our orders! Were they not clear enough for you?"

"I think that Elrond may be the only one who can help the king."

"The king's healers do not seem to think so."

"There may be something they do not know." Tauriel straightened her back. "I thought we should try."

"You get above yourself!" The head of the Council, the one who towered above the others, got to his feet. More of the council were beginning to filter in now, better dressed and just as angry. "The prince may have valued you as a hunting partner, but you are nothing more than a soldier, and you will remember your place!"

Tauriel's lip curled; spit settled in the corners of her mouth as she raised her voice. "I have seen the situation beyond Greenwood's borders; I am the captain of the guard, and I have as much right-"

"You have no right." Another spoke this time. His hair was the colour of waning sunlight. "You are no longer captain. Consider yourself an ordinary guard, and report to your superiors for duty."

Tauriel felt her face flicker, just for a moment. She did not bother to argue with them; they had made their minds up long before this evening. This had no doubt been coming from the moment she insisted on going to Laketown with Legolas. It did not matter that she had won the battle; they had been waiting for her to make a mistake, and she had made it. Perhaps they had insisted on not contacting Elrond for that very reason. Perhaps she had played right into their hands.

There was no way of knowing, and she was not going to try. She could not reason with them.

Tauriel turned her back without bowing, without even dipping her head, and strode from the room. She had one hand on her knife already; it was a new knife, very sharp and very clean. She knew what she was going to do. She had worked hard to become captain of the guard, because she loved Greenwood, because she wanted to see it protected, because she wanted to see others protected. Greenwood could shut itself up, and it would fall. Allies would drop away; they would forget the forest. As captain of the guard, Tauriel had trusted Thranduil to listen to her, if not act on her words. She had been working on him for years, and she had worked harder on Legolas to make them  _see_  why they could not do this. With them, she had had a hope. The Council had not even listened. They had punished her, and she would not bear it.

Elrond would arrive, and they would tell him to leave. Eventually, he would obey. Tauriel could not count on his help. She could not count on anyone but herself.

The guards left Thranduil's door without argument when she told them to, but she knew the news of what had happened would spread quickly; the quicker everyone heard, the better it was for the council. She had less than an hour. Maybe minutes.

If this failed, they would exile her, or worse.

Thranduil was still in place, the torches burned down. Tauriel lit one with trembling hands, reached for her knife, and drew it. The seconds were slipping by, but she made herself breathe, made her hand – the left, because her right was still tender as she did not trust it with a king's throat – steady. She did not want to hurt him. Slowly, she approached Thranduil and stood over him.

"I know you can hear us, when you want to. They said you came out of it last time, because of Legolas. So you can hear."

No response. Tauriel had to force herself to believe Thranduil could hear. If he could not…she did not want to contemplate it. She pressed the knife to Thranduil's neck and held it there, forcing it to be steady. The blade nicked the skin, and a trickle of blood ran in a horizontal line, found the tip of the blade, and slid off, into Thranduil's lap.

"This is your last chance. Wake up, or I'll kill you. I won't leave you like this for ever. You did this because you didn't want to die. Wake up, Thranduil, or you've failed."

It was an empty threat. Tauriel knew she would never be able to bring herself to do it, but Thranduil did not. She made her voice rough and low, made her hand push forward, until she knew it must be hurting him. She made sure there was no more than a few drops of blood spilled, but Thranduil could not know that. Gandalf had recommended trickery, and she had finally understood what he meant.

Thranduil eyes were still closed. She could feel veins throbbing under her fingertips as she held the knife in place. Nothing. No sound, no motion.

Her shoulders began to slump as she considered what to do. The only thing she could think of was to impersonate Legolas's voice, pretend that he was in danger. It was not a good plan; even if she could do a reasonable imitation of Legolas, which in itself was doubtful, she had no guarantee that the grief Thranduil felt when he woke wouldn't kill him. To believe Legolas was alive, to have him taken away, could well break him. But it was her only hope; it was Greenwood's only hope.

Tauriel had her mouth half-open, her lips pursed, when she felt something along her fingertips. Blood. But she was sure she hadn't pushed the knife deep enough for anything more than a few drops…

It hit her like a falling branch. There was more blood because Thranduil's heart-rate had sped up. And there was only one reason it would do that. He had heard her.

She was in the process of lowering the knife when the door burst open and someone seized her by the arm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, feedback welcome!
> 
> To be continued.


	14. Last Chance

Once Thranduil accepted he was dead, the voices gave him less trouble. They never truly left him, but they seemed to lose interest. He sat in the darkness with his back straight, wishing he had a wall to lean against, and swatted at them when they came and cackled around his ears. Sometimes their teeth scraped his ears or arms, but he did not allow it to bother him. He was going to be here for ever; they were the only company he had.

He found it difficult to think without proper memories, difficult to do anything but sit and stare forward, glassy-eyed and tired. He tried to sleep, and found he could not. The air was of no temperature; it might not have existed. He wasn't sure if he was breathing or not.

Something tickled his neck.

For a moment, Thranduil thought it was one of the things getting ready to take another bite out of him, but there was no burning sensation, no prickling in his spine that indicated one of them was close. Slowly, he reached a hand up to his throat and touched it. There was nothing there, but when he rubbed his fingertips together he thought he could feel something dripping onto them. He wished he could see, but the darkness was absolute. He sniffed. Nothing.

 _This is your last chance_.

At first, he thought it was them, but he knew it couldn't be; their voices were always unfathomable, flat and anonymous, and this was distinctly female. He got the feeling he knew it, but he couldn't remember. It felt familiar, but far away. Very far away.

It was probably another trap.

_They won't let you have another one. Wake up, or I'll kill you. I won't leave you like this for ever. You did this because you didn't want to die._

Did what? Who was they? Thranduil frowned and raised his head a little, straining to hear the faint voice in the darkness. Someone was trying to kill someone. He wondered if they would succeed. The voice sounded threatening. But far away. There was nothing he could do to help them here.

_Wake up, Thranduil, or you've failed._

Thranduil's forehead creased as he got to his feet, realising, for the first time that he  _was_  breathing; he could feel his heart beating in his chest. He put a hand to it, felt it thudding under the skin. The pulse in his neck jumped as he forced himself to stay still, waiting for the voice. It did not come.

The voices, the other voices, were already reaching for him, making his spine leap like it was filled with ants. But he didn't allow himself to pay attention, because the female one had used his name.

Her voice had threatened to kill him. The conviction that he was dead suddenly wavered. The dead didn't need to breathe, and yet he could feel his lungs inflating. The dead could not be killed, but the threat had scared him. He put a hand to his neck. The pulse was definitely there, definitely fast.

Could he be alive?

The voices converged on him. Teeth pulled at his hair, dragged his head backwards until his neck was bent and his spine curved under the pressure of staying upright. The hands burned when they touched his bare skin, which bubbled and began to smell. The darkness was wavering, flickering between blackness and blinding white, until Thranduil was so dizzy he wanted to be sick. He refused to let himself fall. If he hit the floor, he wouldn't be able to get up again.

He didn't know where the way out was, but he began to run anyway, with the hands ripping him every step of the way; he stumbled forward and sped along and along, knowing that there would be no walls to stop him now, that he only had to keep running and he would find her. Things snapped at his ankles. The voices chattered and gibbered, but he was running so fast they couldn't keep up, running blind with his hands curled over his head to stop them blistering his cheeks, running toward where the female voice had come from.

Something slithered under his feet, and Thranduil tripped, falling to his hands and knees with a heavy thud that made his head spin. For a moment, he forgot where he was and who he was. The things bore down on him, and he beat them with his fists until they were blistered and oozing. Their voices clogged his ears even as he forced himself to hear through them, try and hear the female voice again. Nothing. The golden hands brushed his face, seized his head and held it so tightly his skull felt like it was crumbling.

_No! No, I wasn't, you don't understand, please._

There it was. Thranduil wrenched his head sideways and, unable to get up because the soles of his feet were too blistered to support his weight, began to crawl toward the sound of the voice. Was it his imagination, or was it getting lighter? The dimness was soothing, after the darkness and the white. He groped for it, gasping.

_I understand perfectly. I know what I saw. You were going to kill the king._

This voice was different. Male, deeper. Again, it sounded familiar. What was it saying? Had someone tried to kill him? He wasn't sure they had. They had threatened to, yes, but they hadn't done it. He'd felt blood on his hands, but only drops. Hardly enough to tickle.

Thranduil was brought to another grinding halt as the things seized his hair. His neck clicked, and he cried out.

_I was trying to help him._

_You were trying to kill him._

_I thought that-_

_Come with me._

_No, I wasn't going to-_

_Come with me, Tauriel._

Thranduil felt his heart jolt. He knew that name. He knew her, he knew, he knew…

_No! Please, let me explain-ow! Ow you're hurting, stop!_

Thranduil's breath hitched in his throat. Something was wrong. Someone was getting hurt. Over him. The confusion he felt was intense, but the desperation was stronger. He dragged himself another inch forward, then another, forced himself to his bleeding feet. Was the pain real? He wasn't sure.

The two voices, the male and the female, were real. Above all, he had to get to them.

"Where are you going?"

Thranduil stopped as the voice pierced him like a fish bone stuck in the back of his throat. The world shimmered as he turned, growing brighter, drowning out the dimmer light that the voices were coming from. That light had been orange, and this was white and harsh.

"Where are you going?"

Legolas was stood in the light with one arm hanging by his side, the hand on the other clutching his elbow, his head down. His short hair was dirty and tangled; tear-tracks were painted on his face. He must have been out into the forest, got himself into trouble, again. Thranduil reached for him instinctively, putting a hand under his dirty chin and lifting Legolas's head. There was a small cut on his temple. Thranduil tutted.

"Where have you been?" he muttered, licking a finger and rubbing at some of the mud. It came away more easily than he'd expected. "I told you not to go out alone."

"Don't be angry, Adar. I'm sorry."

"Yes, well. That's all very nice, but you cannot keep doing this. You will drive me to distraction."

Thranduil looked up and saw his bed in front of him. Briefly, he wondered when he had entered the room, but then Legolas reached for him and put his arms around his neck, holding him very tightly; so tightly Thranduil had to supress the urge to wince. Legolas was covered in mud, but he didn't smell of it.

"Adar, I promise I won't go out again. I promise. I'll stay right here."

"Really?" Thranduil asked, surprised. He tried to pull his head back, get a close look at his son's face, but Legolas held him firmly. "What's brought this change of heart on?"

"I don't want to leave you. Ever. I was scared."

Awkwardly, Thranduil pried himself out of the hug. "There's no need to be scared, so long as you're careful. You're too young to go on the patrols at the moment."

"I don't want to go on the patrols anymore."

Thranduil blinked. "Why?"

"Aren't you happy? You don't want me to be part of the guard, do you? You want me to stay safe."

"Yes…" Thranduil swallowed. His throat was very dry. What Legolas was saying made sense; it was what he wanted. That was what confused him. For months, years, Legolas had begged and pleaded to be allowed to join the guard as soon as grew up. "Yes, of course I want you to be safe. I just don't understand why you've suddenly changed your mind."

"You were right, Adar. It's dangerous out there."

Thranduil was about to keep asking questions when the room seemed to shudder. Briefly, he wondered if he'd eaten; he was getting dizzy. A voice, a female voice, hovered in the air.

_Please, don't do this. It's a mistake._

Thranduil whipped around, frowning. The wall behind him had vanished, and beyond it gaped darkness and orange light.

_I deserve a trial, at least, take me to the council if you have to…_

Memory hit him; this was not real. This was not Legolas. Tauriel had done something, and someone was going to hurt her for it. He took a step forward.

There was a screech from behind him, the screech of a child in pain. Thranduil spun on his heel. The cut on Legolas's temple had swelled like a leech, opened up and was pouring blood down his temples, mixing with the tears gathering in his eyes. He was curled on the floor with his hands to his head, trying to stem the flow. He suddenly looked very young; and to think he had tried to go on the patrol!

"Adar, help me, please, adar!"

Thranduil mentally slapped himself for hesitating and reached forward, pressing his hands to Legolas's forehead. He bunched his robes and formed them into a patch. The bleeding began to slow. "There," he murmured. "It's alright, you're alright. Head injuries always bleed more. You will be fine."

Legolas sniffed and quickly buried his head in Thranduil's shoulder. "Don't go."

Thranduil sighed, picked a twig out of Legolas's hair and threw it into the corner of the room. "I'm here, I won't go. I promise."

Legolas raised his head. Already, the bleeding had stopped. Thranduil felt confusion shudder through him; surely it shouldn't have healed so quickly?

_You don't deserve a trial. You're a traitor and you've committed treason._

_I haven't, I haven't…_

The walls flickered. Thranduil looked up. Legolas clung to him like an animal, digging his nails in; Thranduil had never known him so ferocious. There was still mud on his face, rubbing off every time Thranduil touched him, like paint. Mud that smelled of nothing, a room that smelled of nothing, and the orange light seeping through the walls. Thranduil's arms grew slack.

The mud came off Legolas like paint because that was all he was; painted. He wasn't real. Thranduil forced the thought to stay in his head even has his heart began to shudder. He refused to look down, refused to look away from the orange light, even when Legolas began to scream again, even when more blood began to hit his hands. It was the wrong temperature; cold and clammy. Legolas couldn't be bleeding, because he was already dead.

_Please, please…_

"Please, Adar, please!"

Letting go was hard, not because Legolas was still clinging to him, but because Thranduil knew he had to drop his son, even an illusion of his son, crying on the ground and leave him. Walk away, and not look back. No matter what happened, he could not look back.

He wanted to see Legolas's face. He wanted him to smile. He wanted to kiss his forehead and tell him he loved him, even if he was made of air and memories. But he couldn't do it, because then he would forget.

The female voice had trailed off. Thranduil sped up, ignoring the tiny hands pulling at his robe, ignoring the pleading. The walls seemed to push in on him, forcing him back, but he walked right through them. Legolas was dead, and Thranduil would not allow anyone else to be hurt. The real Legolas would not want that. He was too kind, too young, to allow anyone to die for him. Especially Tauriel.

So Thranduil ignored the sobbing, and kept walking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, feedback welcome!
> 
> To be continued.


	15. Flood Gates

"It is not working." Elrond was looking at Tauriel with an expression so pitying Tauriel wanted to scream. "I think we should go, before someone finds us."

"Not yet," Tauriel muttered. "He can hear us, he's has to hear us…"

Elrond folded his arms. There was a red welt coming up on his face – Tauriel had spun and hit him with the butt of her knife blade when he'd grabbed her arm. "I refused to go back because I wanted to see for myself, but the Council is right; there is nothing I can do for him. I'm sorry. We have tried. It hasn't worked."

Tauriel let her shoulders slump. Elrond, once she had explained what she was trying to do, had heard her out on her idea to impersonate Legolas, and agreed that it was too risky. He had suggested, instead, using their current scenario. Pretending that she was in danger – playing on Thranduil's loyalty to his people. To her.

No wonder it hadn't worked.

"His heart-rate…"

"The amount of strength it took for him to come back last time was phenomenal. To do it a second time, and after so long…I am not sure he's strong enough. He might have tried. But he failed."

Tauriel sighed, put a hand to her face, was about to sink into one of the dusty chairs, and stopped as Thranduil pitched forward, gagged, and opened his eyes. His chest was heaving; sweat formed instantly on his face and neck as he began to cough. Elrond whipped around. Tauriel, halfway to sitting down, staggered awkwardly to her feet.

"Get him some water!" Elrond shouted, putting his arm around Thranduil's back and holding him steady in the chair as he coughed. "Now!"

Tauriel found the water that had been sitting on the table and held it out, surprised to see that her hands were steady as she forced to cup to Thranduil's lips. The coughing eased. Thranduil let out a groan, and suddenly jerked his head up, sagging forward in the seat, looking as if he were trying to stand. Elrond held him down.

"Tauriel…"

"I am here," she said quietly, unsure of what to do.

Thranduil's eye focused on her, roved the room, taking in the obvious lack of any danger, and then he fell forwards again, muttering something under his breath.

"What?" Elrond said.

Thranduil's throat flexed as he blinked, squinting in the torchlight. "I said you're all sons of orcs. It was a trick, was it not? A clever trick." He raised a hand. It was shaking so much that Tauriel could barely focus on it. "Your idea."

Elrond and Tauriel exchanged a glance. Tauriel nodded. "Some of it."

Thranduil seemed to crumple in on himself, slumping into the chair and trembling with exhaustion. There was a greyness under his eyes, which were bloodshot. He hadn't yet bothered to hide his scar; perhaps he didn't have the strength. "I feel like my bones are on fire."

"You have been sitting for weeks," Elrond murmured, releasing Thranduil and stepping back. "Do not try and move too much. I will get you something to ease the soreness; and something to eat."

Thranduil shook his head. "I do not want anything to eat. Do not make me sick, on top of everything else."

"The nausea will not go away until you have food in your stomach. You will eat." Elrond turned to Tauriel. "I will fetch my supplies – stay with him."

"I can get them," Tauriel said hastily.

Elrond shook his head. "This is a delicate matter; the council are not pleased with you, and I do not want you delayed."

Tauriel let him go; she had little choice. Thranduil looked at her, Tauriel blinked, and the skin of his face was suddenly smooth. Thranduil tipped his chin. "Why are the council not pleased with you?"

"It does not matter."

Thranduil snorted, then winced. "There is trouble brewing, or you would not have been so eager to wake me."

"That is not true."

Thranduil looked like he didn't believe her. He had grown thin, she realised; it was only noticeable as he began to move about, and the shows fell on his face, darkening the hollows under his cheekbones and on his wrists. When he turned his head to the right, she could see the dried blood on his neck. The portrait of him and Legolas had fallen on its face in the struggle; slowly, he reached for it, and righted it. "It is true then?"

"What?"

"That Legolas is dead."

"Yes." Giving him the news a second time was just as painful; just as cruel.

"Was it quick?"

She hesitated. "Yes. He didn't even realise; he thought he was going to get away." Her voice cracked. "So did I."

"Everyone dies in hope," Thranduil murmured, letting the portrait drop back down. "You do not have to sound so scared; I have had time. My heart is steady."

"I am not scared." She wanted to tell him that it didn't sound steady; that it sounded like he was going to fade away any second. But he wasn't, she realised, because his face was smooth. If he'd expended the energy to do that, it would not be in vain. "I am…relieved."

Thranduil put a hand to his head, pressing it across his eyes. Tauriel was about to ask him if the light was hurting him, until she realised he was about to cry.

She did not speak. She did not say that it would be alright, because he could tell when he was lied to. It would not be alright. It would never, she realised, be alright. But it would be life, and she would not apologise for dragging him back into it.

In the end, all she could do was leave the room before he began to break down. Dignity. The word made her want to laugh, but she didn't. She didn't think she'd ever heard Thranduil laugh, and now she didn't think she ever would, not until the day he died. But it didn't matter. Because he was willing to live, and she was grateful for that, if nothing else.

 

* * *

 

The door closed. Thranduil lowered his hand from his face; his throat was trembling. He could not remember where he had been for the past – had they said weeks? He didn't know whether it had been better or worse than where he was now, only that he could not go back.

He hauled himself to his feet, grabbing the painting that sat on the table, staggered on sore knees, and limped toward the chest of drawers. He was so  _weak_. The tears were immanent. He told himself, that if he could only reach the drawers, they would not come. They would never come. He would not let them.

The bottom drawer was not locked, but he had not looked in it for so many years that he had to battle, snarling, with the handle to wrench it open. His hands were shaking as it flew open with a screech. Thranduil was about to throw the painting inside, put it away for good, so he didn't have to look at it, so he didn't have to cry over it, when he spotted something at the back of the drawer.

He'd forgotten how the gold chain of her locket had silver threaded into it; it had been so long since he'd allowed himself to see. Elrond had given it to him after he'd woken the first time, and Thranduil had thrown it where he didn't have to look, forced himself to forget.

He would force himself to forget now. He began to jam the painting into the drawer – he did not want to see it, to see the chain, any longer than he had do. He refused to cry. He refused…

The drawer would not close. Rive and strain as he might, he could not make it shut. The painting stared at him, half-covered by the chain. Against his better judgement, against every instinct, Thranduil reached forward and touched it. Legolas's face smiled up at him, in oils and paints.

Thranduil slumped to the floor, his arm on the drawer, leaned his head on his elbow, and began to weep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it, for now! I am writing a sequel to this called The Summer Sings, which will focus on resolving some of the angst. I'm hoping it will be up before too long, so if you're interested keep your eyes peeled! Thank you so much for all your support – I hadn't written anything this long in a while and you were all lovely people, as always!
> 
> The end.


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